


Digging Westeros

by OrangeTabby



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ancient History, Archaeology, Bromance, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Food, Friendship, Geese, Humor, Modern Westeros, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Team (freeform), Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeTabby/pseuds/OrangeTabby
Summary: Sansa Stark adores her job as a consultant archaeologist on the popular show Digging Westeros. She’s proud of the results they can obtain in their three-day digs, and she loves bringing Westerosi history to the general public.That’s the easy part of her job.The hard part will be convincing the newest member of the Digging Westeros family, renowned field archaeologist Sandor Clegane, to participate in the activities it takes to turn an ordinary archaeological dig into good entertainment.And what’s happening with Sandor’s predecessor, Petyr Baelish?
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Hot Pie/Varys (ASoIaF), Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Stannis Baratheon/Davos Seaworth
Comments: 818
Kudos: 515
Collections: Completed Sansa and Sandor





	1. Skagos

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on dates:  
> Dates are worked out from Aegon the Conqueror’s invasion of Westeros. The first day of his reign is 1 After Conquest (AC).  
> Some examples of important events:  
> around 12,000 Before Conquest (BC) - the First Men invade Westeros  
> around 7,000 BC - the Wall is raised  
> around 4,000 BC - the Andals invade Westeros, bringing the faith of the Seven  
> around 314 BC - the Targaryen family settles in Dragonstone  
> 153 AC - death of the last dragon  
> 282-283 AC - Robert’s rebellion and the start of the reign of Robert Baratheon  
> 298 AC – main events of ASoIaF books begins  
> 998 AC – this AU is set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (to camera): On this episode of Digging Westeros the team tackle an ancient Skagosian living structure from the late Dawn Age, dating from around ten thousand years Before Conquest. Will the team find the remains of unicorns? Will they gain further insights on Dawn Age life? Could there be evidence of human sacrifices? Join our expert team, who have just three days to find out.

**Day 0, the evening before Day 1:**

Skagosians were renowned for their ill tempers and Sansa was starting to understand why. She’d been all over Westeros on various digs, but Skagos was officially the least hospitable place she’d experienced. The wind howled a freezing gale over the barren landscape, with no trees to provide shelter. Just rocks and stubborn, prickly grass. They hadn’t even seen any of the famed Skagosian unicorns yet.

She would put up with a lot in order to see unicorns.

There were no unicorns.

The conditions were having a negative effect on the cast and crew of Digging Westeros. Brienne and Jaime were bickering in the geophysics tent, Podrick was hiding from Brienne and Sansa was fairly sure Tyrion had taken a pile of books for company and was day drinking in one of the four-wheel drives. Oberyn was sketching tasteful nudes over by the mess tent. Olenna had flatly refused to come to a location she described as ‘barbarous’ so they were several Tyrell’s short as it was.

Their newest expert was due to arrive any minute and she wasn’t even certain where the usual welcoming committee of Varys and Davos had gone.

Sansa tried to be a positive person. She was living her dream, after all. Using her archaeology degrees to share her love of history with the world. She was always getting messages from young girls saying they too wanted to follow in her footsteps in uncovering the past. But right now, standing with her long red hair turning into a birds nest from the biting wind, serenaded by the distant hum of Brienne questioning Jaime’s academic credentials, she was struggling to keep a smile on her face.

She hunched into the fur-lined trim of her jacket and wrapped her arms around herself.

One of the official Digging Westeros vehicles came into view over the field. Her little sister Arya was driving like a maniac as always. Arya had already completed her geophysical ground scan of the site, compiling a messy picture of what was ostensibly lurking just under the scrubby grass and topsoil. The picture she’d produced, marked with possible locations of underground structures and interesting chunks of metal, was currently in the tent with Jaime and Brienne. Her prep-work done, Arya had volunteered for the long drive to collect their newest team member from the landing strip at the nearest settlement.

Sansa suspected Arya just wanted to be back in mobile phone reception, however briefly, so she could contact her boyfriend Gendry, who was in Hardholme prepping their next site.

Sansa recognised Arya’s passenger from recordings of lectures he’d given that she’d seen online. Sandor Clegane, renowned field archaeologist. Huge, mysterious, notoriously grumpy and Westeros’s foremost expert on Dawn Age cultural artefacts. It was rumoured in the archaeology community that he once correctly identified the origin and pattern of a First Men drinking vessel from the merest sliver from the rim of a beaker.

Sansa shivered a little. With arousal this time instead of cold. She liked smart men. Really liked smart men.

Arya screeched to a halt, fortunately missing the catering tent by a hair.

Sansa straightened, trying to appear professional instead of freezing cold and horny.

Arya jumped out of the vehicle and jogged past Sansa. “Good luck with that one,” she said, jabbing her thumb towards Sandor, who was retrieving his bag from the back of the truck. “I have more data I can analyse and I’ve had enough of that giant fucker for one day.”

Sansa walked up to the newcomer. He was bigger than he’d looked whilst lecturing. His facial scars looked worse in person. There were rumours about those too. Some said he got too close to a dragon whilst excavating solo in the ruins of Old Valyria, others said that he’d had them since he was a child, the result of a tragic accident.

He stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Who the fuck are you?” he said abruptly, looking her up and down with no discernible expression. “I was expecting Davos.”

At least he wasn’t leering at her like some men did. She kept her eyes steadily on his face. He was still handsome, she decided. Imposing. Shame about his personality. She held out her hand to shake his. “I’m Dr Sansa Stark, Dr Clegane. I’m one of the archaeological consultants on Digging Westeros. My job is to liaise between the archaeologists and the television crew so you’ll be seeing a lot of me I’m afraid.”

His hand engulfed hers. “Call me Sandor. Dr Clegane makes me sound like a cunt.”

Sansa smiled, purposely ignoring his appalling language. “I don’t use Dr Stark either, that’s my Mum, so call me Sansa.”

A gaggle of camera operators walked past them, all staggering under the weight of their gear.

Sandor snorted as he watched them. “The things we have to do to get funding.”

Sansa ignored his tart tone. “Getting exposure on this show will mean greater attention to your other professional projects, yes. Brienne recently secured funding for an excavation on Tarth after this season wraps. A post-Targaryen castle dig, which should be very interesting.”

He gave a neutral hum.

She gestured for Sandor to follow her and they walked through the camp.

“I’m sure Varys would have explained the set-up?” she said.

Sandor waved his hand. “Some of the crew do all the preliminary work. Ground scans, research, site mapping, all that shit. We arrive the day before shooting. Dig for three days. Done. Rinse and repeat for each show.”

“That’s basically correct. You will have noted that as part of your particular contract you’ll need to perform an historical enrichment activity each episode? Working constructions of the past are an important part of the viewing experience.”

“I assumed it was shit like eating food they’ve recreated, like those twats in the experimental archaeology department do.”

Sansa thought back to the wide variety of activities that Sandor’s predecessor had to undertake. Now was probably not the time to scare Sandor with some of the more ‘out-there’ re-creations that had happened in past episodes. “Well, they could include food,” she said diplomatically. “Not today though. Ahh here we are.”

They’d reached one of the production tents and Sansa ducked inside for a moment. She retrieved a long white horn and handed it to Sandor when she went back outside.

Sandor’s eyes widened and he looked like someone who’d been passed a live Dornish sand snake. “That’s a unicorn horn.”

“Yes, the historical enrichment for this episode is a unicorn horn flute. I have more horns for you to practise on before we film the segment, probably on Day Two.”

He scowled at the horn. “You want me to take time out of my dig to make a fucking flute? I want to get my hands on some Dawn Age beakers, not do arts and crafts.”

“Music was an important part of all First Men cultures. Including here on Skagos.”

“Yes I know that. Any first-year archaeology student knows that.”

Sansa pursed her lips, struggling to remain polite. “Would you like me to show you to your tent?” she said finally. “Usually we stay in hotels but as you can see…” She swept her arm wide to indicate the barren landscape.

“We’re in the ass-end of nowhere,” finished Sandor.

“You’ll be sharing a tent with Jaime and Tyrion.”

“Not the fucking Lannisters?”

“Yes. Tyrion is a respected historian, we’re very lucky to have him on the show. And Jaime...” She paused slightly. “Well. Jaime is very enthusiastic.”

Sandor snorted. “Those little shits. I had to put up with them at the University of Lannisport. The Old Lion is always pulling the purse strings.”

Sansa hummed noncommittally.

They stopped outside Sandor’s tent. Luckily it was empty, though Sansa could still faintly hear Brienne ranting about the evils of nepotism.

Sandor sighed and held up the horn. “How the fuck do I turn this into a flute?”

***

**Day 1:**

“Davos is on his way,” said Sansa, flicking through her notes on the filming schedule. “You’ll be filming a segment while you show him your sketchbook.”

“I await his pleasure,” said their resident historical illustrator Oberyn Martell, flashing her a winning smile from where he stood, leaning against the hood of a production vehicle. “How is our new archaeologist going?”

Sansa pursed her lips as she considered a polite answer. “Sandor is certainly… well, he’s a perfectionist.”

“I would expect nothing less from the Mad Dog of Archaeology.”

“I don’t think he’d be very impressed if you called him that,” said Sansa, frowning a little.

Oberyn waved a careless hand. “The Hound then. He used that nickname in that ‘Bad Boys of Archaeology’ photo shoot we were both part of for _Westeros History Quarterly_. I look forward to watching him sniff out some artefacts.” Oberyn patted his sketchbook. “He’d be a striking figure to include in my illustrations. All those muscles and anger.” The Dornishman sighed happily.

Sansa made a mental note to have a discreet look at the _Westeros History Quarterly_ back catalogue when she was next at a library on the mainland.

Davos Seaworth jogged into view, trailed by a camera that was clearly recording him. Varys often organised those kinds of shots, he claimed they gave a sense of urgency to Davos’s movements around the dig site.

Sansa was just waiting for someone to turn an ankle on the uneven ground of their digs.

“Do you want to sit in while Oberyn shows me his drawings, Sansa?” said Davos, still being filmed. “Our viewers always clamour for more of you.” He turned and grinned boyishly into the camera lens.

“I’d love to, Davos,” replied Sansa, in the tone of voice she used interchangeably for front of camera work, wrangling unruly undergraduates or reminding Arya to phone their parents once in a while. “I’m sure Oberyn has done a fantastic job in bringing Dawn Age settlements to life through his stunning illustrations.”

Davos stood beside Oberyn who laid his sketchbook down on the hood of the four-wheel drive. Sansa positioned herself on the other side Oberyn so the shot would be nicely framed.

Lommy the cameraman focused on them, then changed his angle to show the sketchbook.

Oberyn proudly opened it to the first page.

Sansa blinked at what she saw.

Davos sighed and waved at Lommy to stop filming. “We can’t show this on camera, lad,” he said to Oberyn. “I can see their titties.”

“But I have provided a detailed image of an everyday scene from the Dawn Age,” Oberyn said sadly. “Of course they were unfettered by our modern expectations of clothing.”

“It’s a lovely drawing,” said Sansa gently. “But it’s always too cold in the North to wear so few clothes. Even so long ago, they would have been bundled up in furs all year round.”

“Also we can’t show titties on our show,” Davos interjected. “It’s G-rated.”

“Oh, there’s a magnificent cock too.” Oberyn’s voice was wistful. He pointed to a well-endowed young Dawn Age man that he’d drawn crouched beside a cooking pit in the corner.

Davos pursed his lips. “We’re a genitalia-free show. Do you have any drawings with just buildings and whatnot from the era?”

***

**Day 2:**

Sansa scrolled through the list of finds that the assistants had already logged. Jaime and Brienne had the potential for a large living structure in the trench they had dug, and Pod had already found some shards of human bone with tool marks that indicated they’d been deliberately butchered by other humans. Tyrion was supposed to be compiling more information about the local folktales dealing with cannibalism. Sandor would no doubt want to examine the objects currently being cleaned in the finds tent, but first they needed to get some footage of his living archaeology experiment.

She glanced over at him. He’d been chipping away at the horn for quite some time now, which was not ideal given their time limits. Some enterprising member of the production crew had organised a weathered log for him to sit on, to make the footage look more ‘authentic’.

She had noticed Varys wincing every time Sandor swore. Hopefully they got enough usable material between Sandor’s bouts of cursing.

“This is fucking impossible,” growled Sandor finally, throwing the remains of the horn to the ground.

Varys groaned. “Cut,” he said, and sighed. 

Sansa switched her tablet off and walked over to Sandor. She frowned at the pile of ivory shards. “Splitting the unicorn ivory along the grain worked during our testing, we got quite a good hollow horn once we glued it back together with tree sap. I don’t know why it’s not working now.”

Sandor glowered at her. “Well it’s not fucking working now and I want to get back to the dig. You want me to get some results in three days then I need to be digging, not fucking about with dead unicorn parts.”

Sansa sat beside him on the log. “Look. Sandor. We got the split horn method working during pre-production, but you are welcome to try another method. This is experimental after all. You are welcome to test different methods so long as we get some useful footage that doesn’t involve you swearing. Even if you fail at least we get some talking points about the craft.”

Sandor rubbed one of his huge hands down his face. Sansa wondered if his scars gave him any pain. However he gained them, all the surgery and treatment must have been traumatic. No wonder he was grumpy. It was incredibly brave of him to put himself out into the public arena with his lectures and now in television.

“Bring me a bronze awl,” he said finally. “I’ll poke this shit. If you want me to experiment, then let’s experiment. The Dawn Age Skagosians had this level of technology.”

Sansa smiled at him, then looked up at the nearest assistant. “Sarella? Can you check with costuming if they have an awl? I think we used one on the episode with the leatherworking. For, um, poking.”

Oberyn’s daughter Sarella Sand bowed slightly in acknowledgement and disappeared towards the costuming tent, muttering something in Dornish.

She almost collided with Tyrion Lannister who was making notes he walked, clearly lost in his thoughts.

“Tyrion, over here,” said Sansa loudly, waving her arm.

Tyrion glanced at them, then down at the piles of horn shards on the ground. “Ahh,” he said, loudly enough that everyone could hear as he walked towards them. “The Mad Dog of Archaeology has his bone I see.”

“Just what I need, the Half Man of History making shitty comments,” Sandor said, also raising his voice so Tyrion could also hear.

Sansa grabbed his arm, then paused. His arm was rock hard and thickly corded with muscle. She stopped and stared down at it for a moment before recovering herself and hissing a whisper into Sandor’s undamaged ear. “Sandor! You can’t say that about someone who, um…” Sansa paused and tried to think of a polite way to refer to Tyrion’s stature, “who has a disability.”

Sandor didn’t bother to lower the volume of his voice. “Disabled people can still be cunts.”

“I just remembered why I liked you, Hound,” replied Tyrion, coming to a stop in front of the log where they sat. “You’re an equal opportunity asshole.”

Sandor shrugged in reply. “Aye,” he rumbled.

Tyrion grinned. “Want a drink? I hid a bottle of Stormlands single malt whiskey in the mess tent.”

Sandor seemed to be considering this. “Aye,” he said again.

Sansa blinked. “I don’t think that’s a good…”

“We’re supposed to be filming this,” Varys interjected. “Because we are all professionals with a shooting schedule and a time limit, if you gentlemen recall?”

Tyrion dismissed Varys with a wave of his hand. “Film it in the mess tent. The dank atmosphere and overwhelming smell of chicken will add authenticity.”

Lommy and the crew lugged the camera equipment into the huge mess tent, supervised by Varys who contrived to appear both serene and extremely put upon at the same time.

The scene now consisted of Tyrion joining Sandor in his increasingly successful flute making efforts, with the occasional whiskey break. Davos had been summoned to comment on the procedure as the host of the show and everyman who could ask questions so the audience could understand the process.

“This is rather fun,” said Tyrion after an hour of attempting to hollow out his horn with the sharp point of the awl. “I don’t know why your predecessor Petyr never liked doing this segment.”

Sandor held up his neatly hollowed flute, complete with holes in the places indicated by the diagram Sansa had given him.

“Don’t mention Petyr,” said Varys in a stage whisper, without calling to cut. “We are now contractually obliged to pretend he doesn’t exist whenever the camera is rolling.”

Sansa grimaced. As recalcitrant as Sandor seemed to be, he was a refreshing change to Petyr, who addressed every conversation they had ever had to her breasts. He used to stare at her too, when she was supervising his projects. It was far easier to do her job now without the stress of constantly being watched.

“That looks excellent, Sandor,” said Davos, taking the flute and facing the camera while he examined it. “I can see why we’ve bought you on as part of the Digging Westeros family.”

“It is common in this part of the world to dig up fragments of instruments made of both bone and horn,” Sandor said in a lecturing tone.

“Eyewitness accounts tell of encounters with Skagosians summoning unicorns with music, Davos,” said Tyrion, slightly drunk, gesticulating with his awl for emphasis.

Sandor deftly avoided getting accidently stabbed. He had sharp reflexes for such a large man.

“Well, we can hope that we get to see one of the buggers,” said Davos, grinning. He handed the flute back to Sandor and clapped him on the back. “I for one need a story to tell my grandchildren.”

“Cut,” said Varys. “Davos, Brienne needs to show you some of the different layers of soil in her trench, so we’ll head over there now.”

“We can all re-join the dig then,” said Sansa.

“Thank fuck,” muttered Sandor, taking a drink of his whiskey. He eyed Tyrion’s flute. “That’s a fucking mess compared to mine.”

“At least mine’s bigger than yours,” muttered Tyrion.

Sandor snorted, and saluted Tyrion with his glass of whiskey.

***

**Day 3, morning:**

Davos sat between two bulky men who were both dark haired and impressively hairy. He looked at the camera and smiled. “Now, here we have Grox and Skrag, two locals who have kindly volunteered to show us some aspects of modern Skagosian culture.”

Sansa, Varys and Sandor watched from the side, waiting for Sandor’s turn on camera.

The obviously younger of the two guests, Skrag, launched into a description of their lives on the island. He detailed traditional hunts for unicorn meat and the subsequent feastdays that were accompanied by music, singing and a group activity called ‘leptrak’, which, judging from his hand gestures, Sansa didn’t think was permitted to be spoken of in a G-rated programme.

Sansa examined Skrag critically. He had a prominent occipital bun rounding out the back of his skull, along with a noticeable brow-ridge, revealing his Ibbenese heritage to Sansa’s trained eye. Recent genetic testing had revealed the connection between Ibben and Skagos, finally putting to rest the persistent myth that Skagosians had descended from giants.

Sansa’s attention drifted from Davos’s interview.

Giants were the current darling of modern archaeology. Their bones and artefacts preserved well but were almost always in inaccessible places to the very far north. There were a number of digs planned beyond the Wall to try to locate them comparatively further south, including their next episode in Hardholme. She knew the Free Folk had always claimed to have had historical contact with them, and some evidence was now coming to light that proved this to be the case.

Sandor shifted restlessly from foot to foot beside her, interrupting her train of thought and bringing her back to the present.

Sansa stood on tiptoes to whisper into his unburnt ear. “Won’t be long. Davos just likes to establish a rapport with the locals and put them at their ease on camera.”

Sandor just grunted in response.

The older Skagosian, Grox, started to play his flute.

Sansa wasn’t sure what to expect, but Grox’s playing was beautiful. She even recognised the tune, a traditional folksong from the mainland, ‘Jenny of Oldstones’. She remembered singing it in the choir at school in Winterfell.

Grox shifted position a little and she blinked, looking more closely at the flute. There was something… odd about it.

She stifled a gasp and nudged Sandor when she realised.

“He’s playing a human femur,” she whispered to him.

Sandor also squinted at the instrument, that was bone white and beautifully carved. “So he fucking is,” he said in a low rumble. “That’s more interesting that a unicorn horn.”

Sansa sighed and shook her head. Hopefully their audience wouldn’t realise what it was.

They all clapped when he had finished playing. Davos wiped a tear from his eye.

Sandor looked troubled. “You can’t fucking expect me to play something like that,” he hissed. “I’m an archaeologist, not a fucking troubadour.”

“Now Sandor,” Varys said soothingly, “the audience will relate to your valiant attempts to produce sound from your hand carved instrument.”

Sandor did not seem soothed. “You can’t expect me to go after a Skagosian with a human bone flute,” he said.

Varys’s eyes went wide and he mouthed the words ‘human bone’ with an expression of horror.

Sansa ignored him. “I hear Brienne uncovered the remains of a really nice fire pit,” she said to Sandor, “if we finish up here quickly you can take a look.”

Sandor scowled, but moved to sit beside Davos and the Skagosians.

Varys, who seemed to have quickly recovered from finding out the nature of the beautiful instrument, waved frantically at Lommy the cameraman who reframed the shot and began shooting the footage.

Sandor allowed Davos to chatter on a bit more then grudgingly bought the flute up to his lips when requested.

“Now Sandor here is going to try one of the instruments that he and Tyrion made earlier in our dig,” said Davos.

Sansa supressed a smile as Sandor’s flute produced a piercing shriek.

He lowered it and gave it a look of alarm, before clearly steeling himself and blowing again.

“Well Sandor,” said Davos jovially, “It’s not quite music, but I wonder if you summoned any unicorns.”

***

**Day 3, evening:**

Sansa paused on her way to one of the official vehicles. She was due to fly out to Hardholme that evening to liaise with the staff already there, but she had a little time to spare.

Sandor was at the edge of the camp, staring out over the bleak landscape, holding the little flute he’d made. His hair tangled in the wind much as hers had. Luckily Digging Westeros wasn’t really a show for people with tidy hair. 

“How did you enjoy your first shoot?” she said cheerfully.

“Waste of fucking time,” he said absently, his attention clearly elsewhere.

She raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she said sceptically.

He looked at her and grunted. “Well. Could have been worse,” he said grudgingly, nodding at something in the distance.

She followed his gaze over the landscape.

Silhouetted against the distant grey sky was a black unicorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn Stark is an Orthopaedic surgeon in this AU. She wished Sansa would have followed in her footsteps but is happy that her oldest daughter is doing what she loves.


	2. Hardhome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (voiceover): Today on Digging Westeros we journey north of the Wall to Hardhome, the ancient site of several tragic massacres. The haunted caves are perhaps the most well-known feature of this site, but they are a protected monument and as such we can’t excavate in them. What we will be doing is some limited excavations in the ruins of the village, which is now home to an extensive tourist complex. Will we find evidence of the Long Night? Will we find giant bones? What became of the population of Free Folk who sheltered here? Join us as we have just three days to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ballad of the Red Witch that features in this chapter is taken from the text of Melisandre’s vision in ADwD ch 31.

**Day 1:**

The sheen on his skin must be oil, Sansa decided after a close examination of the photo spread. For research purposes only, of course.

She looked around again, making sure she couldn’t detect anyone approaching this section of the Hardhome Visitors Centre library. Just the distant hum of some crew was discernible, who were setting up Tyrion’s segment on the history of this area.

Squinting at the photos again, Sansa idly wondered who had had the blessed job of greasing the featured archaeologists with oil. Sandor’s thickly muscled torso shone brighter than the trowel he held in the photos, even with the dark hair that covered his chest and arms.

It looked like the shoot had taken place somewhere in the Stormlands, judging by the stratigraphy in the wall of the trench behind Sandor. They’d posed him inside it, lifting a slab of masonry with the arm that wasn’t holding the trowel. Completely contrary to standard excavation practice, but the pose did do interesting things to the muscles in his arms and torso.

Sansa flicked over a few pages. Oberyn was there, also oiled and shirtless, flashing his brilliant smile and carrying a sketch pad. She recognised a few others, including Jaime. He was certainly more built than his nephew Joffrey.

Sansa grimaced. She tried not to let her thoughts dwell on Joffrey.

Tyrion’s voice broke through her musings. “Well that doesn’t look guilty at all, Sansa. Hiding amongst the periodicals.”

To her shame, Sansa jumped in fright, shrieked and quickly hid the magazine behind her back.

“Tyrion,” Sansa gasped. “Shouldn’t you be filming your segment?”

“Yes I’m here to do it. The crew said you were lurking back here.” He grinned up at her through the hood of his fur-lined jacket. “And now you have to show me what you were reading. Don’t be shy, I assure you that no manner of filth will damage my delicate sensibilities.”

Sansa huffed. “I’m not Olenna, Tyrion, I’m not reading anything like that.”

She calmly handed Tyrion the magazine, trying to salvage the situation by pretending she was doing nothing wrong.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at the magazine cover. “The summer nine-nine-seven AC edition of Westeros History Quarterly. I’ve certainly seen this one before. Which of the Bad Boys of Archaeology were you looking at?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

Sansa sighed.

“Oberyn would fuck anything that moves,” Tyrion continued, “but I can’t imagine you agreeing to share him with Ellaria. I doubt you’d touch any of us Lannisters with a ten-foot pole after what happened with my dreadful nephew, so my beloved brother is out. Who else do we have... Euron Greyjoy?”

Sansa made a face. “I don’t know why Euron’s even in there. Everyone knows Yara’s the brains behind the Iron Islands archaeology trust.”

Tyrion nodded. “Plus he’s madder than twenty cats trapped in an elevator with one can of tuna and a drunken dwarf.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side as she regarded the historian. “That’s a very specific analogy.”

“Yes, don’t ask me how I know,” he said darkly, continuing to thumb through the pages. “Ah hah! Not the newest member of the Digging Westeros family?”

Sansa felt her face flush.

“I wasn’t looking at photos of Sandor. I was reading an article about…” she grabbed the magazine from Tyrion’s grasp and opened it to a random page as she glanced down, “…um, advanced methods for dating coprolites.”

“Sansa,” he said, shaking his golden head reproachfully. “You are a shockingly bad liar. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

“There is no secret!”

“You’re allowed a harmless workplace crush. I can certainly see the appeal, if one is into huge muscles and a surly attitude.” Tyrion took the magazine back from Sansa and found the page featuring Sandor again. He held it close to his face and inspected it. “They must have used an entire bottle of oil on him.”

Sansa pursed her lips. “An entire bottle. Do you really think so?”

“He’s glowing like a moist feastday roast chicken. Yes, I really think so.” Tyrion pointedly re-filed the magazine with the others on the shelf. “Anyway, shall we film my segment now?

They walked back to the designated filming spot, which looked more organised than when Sansa had seen it a few minutes ago.

The crew had positioned piles of books on the table to make it seem like Tyrion had been busy doing his research in the library, as opposed to having production assistants deliver wheelbarrow loads of research materials to the nearest tavern as was usually the case. Tyrion regarded them with some ill favour.

“I like to keep piles of things in my vicinity low so the viewers can still see me,” he said.

Davos and Varys came bursting into the room, both puffing a little. Lommy and a flock of crew members were hot on their heels.

“Sorry,” Davos said, flopping into a seat. “I had to talk Brienne down.”

“What did Jaime do this time?” Sansa asked.

Davos made a vague gesture. “Got a bit carried away with the shovel. Almost clipped a giant’s arm bone.”

Sansa blinked. “That’s a significant find. We didn’t know for certain there would be any proof that giants came here.”

Varys cleared his throat and tapped his wrist, though he wasn’t wearing anything on it.

Tyrion hopped up into his chair. “Come on then folks. I have many interesting things to tell you all about Maester Wyllis.”

“Really?” said Davos, sitting up straighter.

“No,” replied Tyrion. “I’ve never read such a dull account of life amongst the Free Folk. I did manage to find some volumes written by brothers of the Night’s Watch which are a little more interesting. Your cousin actually suggested some titles to me.” He nodded at Sansa.

That sounded like Jon. He and Tyrion had stuck up an unlikely friendship during one episode they’d filmed at Castle Black a couple of seasons ago, where Jon was a ranger at the Wall National Park. Sansa hoped her favourite cousin would be able to make it to the filming of their upcoming dig at Queenscrown.

“How did you go during your extensive research here in the Hardhome library?” said Davos to Tyrion and Sansa realised the cameras were rolling.

“Well Davos, the most well-known primary source is Maester Wyllis’s _Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches_. The library has a first edition as you can see, which includes the first written recipe for producing sour goats milk.” Tyrion had produced white cotton gloves from somewhere and now wore them as he tenderly turned the vellum pages of an ancient illuminated manuscript.

Davos looked suitably impressed.

“Wyllis lived here under the protection of a chieftain named Gorm the Wolf, one of the famous Four Chieftains of Hardhome, but had to flee when Gorm got killed.”

“Was that during the first destruction of Hardhome?” 

“No, Gorm’s death occurred in a drunken brawl and the first destruction happened around fifty years later, though it’s unknown what exactly happened.” Tyrion closed the first book and selected a smaller volume. “I’ve got some books here which detail accounts of Night’s Watch brothers, who wrote that it looked like the sun rose from the north, which was caused by the intensity of the fires that burned here in Hardhome. You’ll notice that compared to the gold and silver illuminations of Maester Wyllis’s manuscript, the accounts of the watchers on the Wall are utilitarian and without embellishment.” Tyrion patted the Night’s Watch book fondly. “Both literally and figuratively.”

“What about the incident we’ve all heard stories of as children, where the dead were said to have invaded?”

“I’ve got a copy of the Ballad of the Red Witch here, which includes the famous poem we all learned at school.” Tyrion cleared his throat and read:

“Snowflakes swirl from a dark sky,

Ashes rise to meet them.

Grey.

White.

Whirl around each other.

As flaming arrows arc above wooden wall,

And dead things shamble silent through the cold.

Beneath a great grey cliff where fires burn inside a hundred caves,

The wind grew and the white mist ere came sweeping in.

Impossibly cold.

And one by one the fires went out.

After,

Only the skulls remained.”

Davos hummed. “That’s tragic stuff. But are we aware of what actually happened? Did the dead really walk?”

“We know that slavers raided Hardhome when the Wildlings sheltered here, claiming to be hiding from beings they called Others. You might also know them as White Walkers from the stories.”

“The stuff of nightmares.”

“Indeed. The Night’s Watch sent some men apparently, because we have their records of that, but nothing has survived about what actually happened once they arrived, or even if they arrived at all.”

Sansa shivered. She’d read the accounts recorded by her ancestors of the final Long Night, six hundred years ago. Most Southern scholars thought the tales of the dead arising were allegories for Free Folk attacks on the Wall, and on the settlements in the Gift, but Northerners knew better. The North remembered.

One day Sansa hoped to find archaeological evidence of the long-ago attacks of the dead upon the living. Proof that the scant written accounts were true, not fables.

***

**Day 2:**

“Sansa!” said Olenna Tyrell from the comfort of her camping chair. She was barely visible through the swathe of furs bundled around her. She gestured at the hive of activity at the nearest trench with what looked like a mug of steaming hot mulled wine. “Come to enjoy the view?”

Sandor and three-quarters of the Tyrell grandchildren were busily excavating in the small trench they’d been allowed by the Hardhome lodgings. Sansa always thought of the younger Tyrell’s as grandchildren even though they were all older than her. She suspected anyone spending time with Olenna would end up doing the same.

Oberyn sat on the far side of the trench, facing Olenna and drawing something in his sketchbook. He smiled and waved at Sansa and she waved back. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what he was drawing.

“Just here to collect Sandor for the brewing activity,” Sansa replied, looking back at the older woman, who was known in the industry as the Queen of Thorns for her pioneering work in pollen extraction and analysis.

Olenna snorted. “It’s as cold as the Crone’s armpit up here, and you want to take away my fun?” She nodded at Sandor who was apparently demonstrating a permafrost digging technique to Garlan Tyrell that involved both men bending over.

Sansa mentally shook herself. It wasn’t professional to ogle her colleagues, yesterday’s incident with the magazine notwithstanding.

It made her feel a little better that Loras Tyrell was also side-tracked by watching Sandor, until his sister Margaery threw a clump of dirt at him.

“He’s certainly a tall glass of water.” Olenna saluted Sansa with her mulled wine and took a drink.

Sansa gave a non-committal hum.

Olenna peered up at her. “Don’t worry about his face, my dear. All men are the same in the dark.”

A cry of triumph saved Sansa from having to reply. Margaery brandished something in the air, then jumped lightly out of the trench and walked over to Olenna’s chair with one of the roaming camera people on her heels.

“Hi Sansa,” said Margaery brightly before focusing her attention on Olenna. “We’ve found a bunch of shards, Grandmother. Sandor thinks it dates to the rule of the Four Chieftains, but I thought I should check with you.”

She handed Olenna the chunk of pottery and the elderly archaeologist squinted at it. The cameraman, Reysen, Sansa recalled his name was, hovered over Olenna.

“The young man is correct,” said Olenna. “See that squiggle, here.” She pointed to a small mark on the pot shard. “That is part of a stylised lighthouse motif that only appears around the time Maester Wyllis lived here and studied the inhabitants. The Wildlings didn’t have lighthouse technology themselves, but Wyllis would apparently regale them with tales of Oldtown and that is reflected in the designs from redware pottery of that era.”

“There’s charring on the pots we’re getting on this layer.” Sandor joined them, wiping his muddy hands on his thick jumper, heedless that they were being filmed. “From the first destruction of Hardhome, by slavers from across the Narrow sea.”

“Or Skagosians,” added Olenna. “Keep an eye out for evidence of cannibalism in that layer, see if we can solve the mystery once and for all.”

“Fucking Skagos,” muttered Sandor and Reysen pointedly lowered the camera. “It was as cold as the Crone’s cunt there and it’s cold as the Crone’s cunt here.”

“It can’t have been all bad,” said Olenna, holding out her mug for Margaery to refill. “I hear you and young Dr Stark here saw a unicorn. You know what they say about people who see unicorns…”

“Sandor, the Free Folk expert has arrived for your brewing activity,” interjected Sansa hurriedly, suspecting whatever people said about unicorns wasn’t something she wanted to hear about in public. “Davos will probably be there by now. He was just finishing up talking to Brienne and Jaime in their trench when I left to come here.”

Sandor rolled his eyes but nodded. “Alright. Can’t be any fucking worse than making a flute.”

Sansa managed to make polite conversation with Sandor as they walked to the area set up for brewing without thinking about his shirtless magazine shoot. Or, at least, thinking about it more than a few times. And the polite conversation was mostly her talking and him grunting in response. She had gathered during their short acquaintance unless it was about archaeology, he wasn’t one for chit chat.

The Free Folk brewing expert was a large red-headed man called Tormund who had apparently purloined Tyrion’s book wheelbarrow and filled it up with alcohol making supplies.

Lommy was the one filming them. Sansa had to hand it to Tormund, he was a natural on camera and had great chemistry with Davos. Not Sandor, but then no one had great chemistry with Sandor that Sansa had noticed. At least, unlike his predecessor, Sandor wasn’t creepy. There was a certain charm to his disinterest in experimental archaeology.

“I have a traditional smoke cured goatskin bag,” Tormund said happily, holding up a motley brown pouch. Sansa caught a faint whiff of goat.

Davos took it from him and held it up to the camera. Sandor glowered in the background.

Sansa’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she took a few steps back to check it.

**Arya [2.31pm] – Fkn Gendry broke my best geo phys scanner. sned help.**

**Sansa [2.31pm] – Msg Varys, he was heading to your part of the dig last time I saw him. I’m wit Davos and Sandor atm.**

**Arya [2.32pm] – OHHHHH TYRION TOLD ME ABUT UR SECRET SHAME W THE MAGAZINE. U HVE A CRUSH ON THE HOUND.**

**Sansa [2.32pm] – ARYA STARK DO YWOUR JOB AND DO NOT ENGAGE IN IDLE GOSSIP.**

**Arya [2.33pm] – [Eggplant emoji]**

Sansa made a mental note to give Tyrion a piece of her mind when she saw him next, though if Arya had been trying to get information out of him, she doubted anyone’s ability to withstand the attentions of her sister.

She tucked her phone away and stepped forward to watch again.

“Okay,” Tormund was saying briskly, “I’ll get you to add the kef to the goats milk, which will acidify it and trigger the fermentation.”

He reached into his pocket and handed Sandor a handful of what looked like crumbled cauliflower. Sansa watched and took notes as Sandor added the fermentation agent to the bag of milk and shook it according to Tormund’s instructions.

“You must wear the bag close to your body, it needs the heat to work in this climate. Traditionally we would wear them when we went on hunts. It was a sign of virility to wear the biggest bag we could.” Tormund gave Sandor a hearty slap on his shoulder. “But you have nothing to prove my friend. You have the look of a man who could steal many brides.”

What passed for a smile on Sandor’s face was starting to look a little fixed, but he lifted his jumper and shirt to allow Tormund to attach the goat-skin bag to his torso.

Sansa reminded herself not to be disappointed with the comparatively small amount of skin on display, because she was not lusting after anyone. She was a professional and had sworn off relationships.

“Is it comfortable?” asked Davos.

“I’ll manage,” said Sandor.

Tormund beamed like a proud father. “Now, you’ll need to keep walking otherwise the process won’t work.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “For how long?”

Tormund shrugged. “You need to emulate our traditional hunts, so, oh, twenty-four hours should do it.”

Davos looked startled. “He needs to walk for twenty-four hours?”

Sandor’s eyebrows drew together, and Sansa winced in anticipation of his reaction.

“BUNCH OF CU….”

***

**Day 3: Early Morning**

**From:** Petyr Baelish <PBaelish@RealHistory.tv>  
 **Sent:** 10th day of the 4th Moon, 998, 5:08:05 PM  
 **To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** potential collaboration

Dear Sansa,

I have an excellent opportunity I’d love to discuss with you. Please phone me at your earliest convenience.

Warmest regards,

Petyr

_Dr Petyr ‘Littlefinger’ Baelish Hon.PhD (Gulltown)_

_Author of “The Barefoot Archaeologist” and “Andal’s Alien Origins”_

_Creative Director, Producer, Consultant and Talent Manager: Real History Uncovered Truth_

_7 secrets to a sucessful career? Ask me how! [click here]_

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 11th day of the 4th Moon, 998, 6:05:25 AM  
 **To:** Petyr Baelish <PBaelish@RealHistory.tv>  
 **Subject:** RE: potential collaboration

Petyr,

No thank you.

Sansa.

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

Sansa scowled at her phone. Whatever ‘excellent opportunity’ Petyr wanted to discuss, she didn’t want a bar of it.

Even if it was an opportunity, excellent or otherwise, she didn’t feel up to Petyr’s overly intimate phone voice, heavy breathing and the inevitable sly questions about her mother. 

Her parents were married, happily as far as she knew. Petyr and Cat had been childhood friends, which apparently resulted in an incredibly creepy fascination on Petyr’s part and obliviousness on her mother’s part.

Sansa sighed, blowing a cloud of breath into the frigid air.

Perhaps her email response had been too abrupt. She did so hate being rude. She had, however, been walking around Hardhome for three hours now and it wasn’t even dawn yet.

A faint odour of goat also wafted around her.

She needed a holiday, Sansa decided. Her inappropriate lust for her new colleague and terse response to her former colleague were probably symptoms of fatigue. There were some interesting digs happening over in Old Valyria, perhaps she could tag along on one of those for fun once they wrapped up this season of Digging Westeros. Maybe write a couple of journal articles. She’d have to get a Greyscale vaccine, but the scar on her arm from that would be a small price to pay for some peace and quiet. 

She kicked a few loose stones over the frozen ground. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of hot tea right now. Her breath still puffed out in frozen clouds and she was uncomfortably aware of the sloshing of the bag of fermenting goats milk under her clothing.

“Having fun?” rasped a voice.

Sansa stopped, but jiggled from side to side to keep agitating the alcohol. “I can think of things I’d rather be doing this early in the morning.”

There was a loaded pause in which Sandor silently raised his eyebrows and Sansa realised with a squeak of alarm what she’d said.

“Um, like reading a good book,” she continued, trying to claw back some dignity, “snuggled up in a warm bed…”

There was another pause. Sandor’s lips twitched.

“You know what, never mind,” Sansa said, supressing a grimace. “Why are you up so early? Pod was supposed to keep up walking the sour goats milk until after breakfast, so I didn’t think I’d see you for a while yet.”

Sandor shrugged. “I was awake, thought I’d come and relieve Podrick. Why did you take over?”

“Pod is Southern. He wasn’t coping too well with the cold night. I don’t notice it so much.”

Sandor motioned for her to continue her circuit and he fell into step beside her. “You’re from Winterfell? I read your paper on dating the masonry of the old Keep.”

Sansa’s heart fluttered. He’d read something that she’d written?

“Oh. Well.” Sansa realised in that moment that she’d forgotten how to formulate intelligent archaeological commentary.

Sandor gave her a sideways glance. “I thought your analysis of kiln use was shit.”

That snapped her out of her momentary verbal failure. “There wasn’t just one type of brick kiln used in the North,” she said sharply. “There were variations all over, predominantly between the eastern and western sides of the North. White Harbour in particular used a clamp kiln far longer than…” she trailed off.

Sandor was smiling. Not even an interpretation of a smile. An unmistakable smile. “I’m just fucking with you,” he said. “Your conclusions were solid.”

Sansa huffed. “You shouldn’t joke with anyone who has just spent three hours in the very early morning walking around with goat products attached to their body.”

He stopped and held out his hand towards her. “My turn again.”

They swapped the gear over, Sandor politely turned his back whilst Sansa lifted her heavy coat and unstrapped the bag.

She helped him attach it to himself, not peeking at all as she did.

“I’ll walk with you for a while,” Sansa said once they’d resumed trudging around the village. “But let’s find some hot drinks on the way.”

***

**Day 3 afternoon:**

Jaime showed up just before they were due to taste the finished, alcoholic and suitably agitated sour goats milk.

“The wench needed some time alone with our giant bones,” Jaime said by way of explanation. He tugged down the bottom of the garishly striped jumper he always insisted on wearing.

Sansa would have thought Tyrion was the more likely Lannister to show up if alcohol was in the offing, but at least Jaime always added visual interest to a shot.

“Makes the colours all funny,” muttered Lommy, who had focused his camera on Jaime’s jumper and was pressing buttons.

“Why the fuck do you wear that thing, Lannister?” said Sandor as he strode in circles around them, sour goats milk sloshing with the force of his stride.

He made Sansa a little dizzy.

“My Aunty Genna likes to knit,” said Jaime proudly. “And it makes her happy when I wear her stuff on the show. She’s promised to send me a matching hat.”

Jaime was an undeniably attractive man… thoughts of Sandor’s heavily oiled torso intruded at that moment and Sansa hurriedly banished them… but a mismatched striped jumper was a fashion struggle for anyone to pull off.

Varys herded everyone into place for filming, including Sansa who got the dubious pleasure of standing next to Jaime. She anticipated his jumper providing camouflage.

“Five, four, three, two…” Davos was holding up a giant stopwatch as he spoke, “…one! That’s it Sandor, time to serve the traditional sour goats milk.”

Sandor had spent all but six of the past twenty-four hours walking, but he didn’t even look fatigued. Sansa wondered if they’d get any fan mail referring to Sandor’s stamina, though this season wouldn’t be airing for a few months yet. Male cast members always seemed to be more popular with the largely female fan base. Davos constantly had ladies mail their panties to him, which was even less appreciated than it otherwise might have been considering he was gay and happily married to his husband Stannis. Tyrion was the only one who seemed to enjoy the attention. He’d spent much of the last live show signing the bras of various fans.

“Down the hatch!”

Sansa blinked as she realised Tormund stood in front of her holding a carved cup filled with a white liquid. It smelled like a vaguely alcoholic sour cream.

Trying not to overthink, she quickly sculled the entire cup.

Jaime gasped. “We’ve only been taking sips,” he said under his breath.

Tormund gave her an appreciative round of applause.

Sansa coughed. The sour goats milk was far stronger than it looked, though it didn’t taste bad. A little like champagne mixed with cream, perhaps?

“That is a sign of true strength,” said Tormund, sounding awestruck. “You would make an excellent bride for a lucky man or woman.”

“She’s an archaeologist, not a trophy.”

Was that Sandor’s voice? Her vision seemed to blur at the edges.

She looked up,

And up.

And up?

Sandor was standing beside her.

“You are so tall,” she whispered to him, softly softly. “And so shiny and hard. And hairy. Would you like anyone to baste you with oil today?”

Every blink she took seemed to take a lifetime.

“And that concludes our three days at Hardhome,” came Davos’s voice from afar. “We’ve found giant bones, and evidence of the first destruction of the settlement. We’ve learned a lot about…”

Sansa blinked in his direction.

“Davos. You are less tall than Sandor,” she said, very carefully.

“Cut,” said Varys, raising his voice. “Are you well, Sansa?”

“Sleepy time now,” she slurred, and fell backwards into strong arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the Starks are alive in this AU. Ned is Warden of the North, which is a bit like being a State Governor/Premier. He and Cat work very hard in their respective careers, but try to make time for date night every weekend. Ned thinks Petyr Baelish is a dick.


	3. Red Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (to camera, holding a chunk of shaped obsidian): “Red Lake is a place fair dripping with history. Once part of the Kingdom of the Reach under House Gardner of Highgarden, and then a dragon hideout during the first Dance of the Dragons, Red Lake is also an important prehistoric site. The name is said to come from the wholesale slaughter of the Children of the Forest here, which made the lakes run red with their blood. Will we find evidence of these magical creatures? Or of the First Men settlements that followed their demise? Will we even find traces of the fabled dragonglass tools? Join us, where we have just three days to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that obsidian and dragonglass are the same thing and are a type of black volcanic glass (as used to kill white walkers).

**Day before Day 1:**

Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. These small as fuck charter planes had no leg room and no in-flight food service. He would happily sell the Imp to a Tyroshi pleasure house in exchange for a fucking bag of peanuts.

Maybe next time he would just drive overnight to their destination with the four-wheel drives.

He resisted the urge to look at the woman occupying the seat diagonally in front of him, who was currently engaged in animated conversation with her sister. The ginger Stark girl had spent most of the flight between Eastwatch-by-the-sea and Red Lake alternating between throwing him dramatic, agonised looks, and apologising for saying she wanted to lube him up.

He hoped no one would tell her how she’d vomited on his shoes as he was carrying her to the Hardhome Visitor’s Centre sick bay. He was a cunt, it was true, but he wasn’t mean. Well. He wasn’t mean to her. She was embarrassed enough. Not her fault she had that reaction to the sour goats milk.

Anyway, there were plenty of worse things in life than having a hot archaeologist offering to feel you up, even if they did end up ruining your shoes shortly afterwards. She’d started coming around after she chucked, and stroking his chest, but her fierce little shit of a sister had shown up then and told him to fuck off, so fuck off he had.

If they didn’t have to work together, he’d have offered to let Sansa Stark grease up any fucking part of him she liked, but he didn’t like to shit where he ate. As it were. Or was it shit where he slept? He couldn’t remember how the saying went.

If he’d had the occasional wank in the shower to the thought of bending Sansa over the edge of a trench and reaming her until she screamed in pleasure that was nobody’s business but his own. He was a red-blooded man after all, and she was hot as fuck. Smart, too, and he did appreciate a clever woman.

Sadly, he needed this job and the financial opportunities that came with it. Workplace relationships always ended badly. Fuck, his relationships, such as they were, always ended badly and he couldn’t risk that happening here.

“Sandor?” Sansa slipped into the seat beside him, which had mercifully been left empty by way of him audibly growling every time a hapless crew member tried to sit there.

Sandor raised the eyebrow on the good side of his ruined fucking face and waited for the latest apology. He was looking forward to hearing her try to apologise again while turning bright red and trying not to use the words ‘rub’, ‘oil’ and ‘skin’.

She held out a slim folder instead. “This is the information about this dig’s experiment. I thought you might like the details now since I’ve heard it’s one of your interests.”

He flicked through the papers in the folder and smiled. Flint knapping. Finally, something worth doing.

He hadn’t realised he’d said that last thought out loud until Sansa laughed.

She had the most beautiful fucking laugh.

Fuck. He focused on the papers in front of him.

“I’ve seen the video of you making that pre-Pact era handaxe,” she said enthusiastically, “copying the ones made by the Children of the Forest and found at the Isle of Faces. It must have taken years to get that level of technical skill.”

She seemed genuinely interested, so he bent down with some difficulty, reached underneath the seat in front of him and pulled out his hand luggage. He removed a leather wrapped bundle and passed it to her.

She unwrapped it, her long fingers delicate and careful, revealing several shaped chunks of deer antler and smooth rocks.

“You have your own set of flint knapping gear?” Her voice sounded a little breathless and her cheeks flushed pink as she ran her fingertip down one of the pieces of antler that he’d carefully shaped into a refining tool. “Westerosi history must be so important to you.”

If he didn’t know any fucking better, he’d have said she was aroused. At the thought of him having his own set of handmade prehistoric tools? At the idea that he’d dedicated his entire fucking life to uncovering the past?

To be fair, he was getting tuned on at her frank appreciation of his gear.

She studied the equipment on her lap, touching it all as if she was memorising the feel, then looked back up at his face. Her eyes were wide, and she slowly licked her lips.

Oh, shit.

He was in so much fucking trouble.

***

**Day 1, morning:**

“If you could angle yourself, just so, that would be advantageous.” Oberyn Martell paused with his pencil hovering above the page and gestured in the direction he wanted.

Sandor grumbled but did as Oberyn asked. “I don’t know why you want to draw an ugly fucker like me as a First Man,” he said, jabbing the soil with more force than necessary.

Oberyn smiled, showing all his teeth. “You, my large friend, are an interesting subject.”

Despite himself, Sandor believed him. For some reason, none of the Dornish crew members had appeared at all discomforted by his scars. Sarella Sand had even asked to touch them, after revealing she one day wished to become a Maester. She’d asked after if he wanted to fuck, and seemed genuinely disappointed when he courteously turned her down.

“I’d better have my fucking clothes on,” Sandor said finally.

“You do,” confirmed Oberyn, glancing up from his work again, “though if you wish to be shirtless to pose I would gladly offer my services to rub you with oil.”

Sandor ignored him and just silently raised his middle finger in Oberyn’s direction.

The illustrator laughed. “I regrettably lack the charms of the lovely Dr Stark.”

“Oberyn,” said Brienne of Tarth reproachfully, standing up straight and wiping the sweat from her forehead with a giant man’s handkerchief. “You shouldn’t make fun of Sansa for having an allergic reaction to the sour goats milk and saying those things. She would never say anything like that otherwise.”

Sandor had the sudden and vivid recollection of Sansa fondling his tools on the plane. He cleared his throat and focused on digging.

“Please keep your nearest shoulder towards me, my majestic goddess,” said the Dornishman, looking between Brienne and him and scribbling something in his notebook. “I mean no insult to Sansa. She clearly has excellent taste.”

“Fuck off,” said Sandor mildly.

Brienne grimaced at him. “The more you swear the less footage they’ll be able to use.” She jabbed her thumb towards one of the gormless cameramen stationed nearby.

The cameraman smiled and waved.

Sandor and Brienne ignored him.

Sandor leaned on his shovel. “Davos isn’t here, and I doubt they’ll include footage of us digging and not finding any fucking thing.”

“There was excellent evidence of a wall here from Arya’s scans.” Brienne frowned down at the ground.

“We’re getting pretty fucking close to the natural clay down here.”

Brienne made a face. “Just a bit more.”

Sandor didn’t know why Dr Brienne of Tarth insisted on keeping the pretentious as fuck ‘of’ in her name instead of dropping it like everyone else did hundreds of years ago. She wasn’t pretentious in any other way. Thus far Sandor hadn’t minded being on digs with her because she knew when to keep her mouth shut and happily worked in silence. Unlike that cunt Jaime Lannister who never shut up and spent all his time alternating between mournfully eye-fucking Brienne, and driving them all insane with his constant chatter and ridiculous theories. From what he gathered, they hadn’t actually fucked yet, which would explain Lannister’s obvious pining. He wished they’d just get on and do it. Get it out of their systems. Nothing more fucking annoying than sexual tension at a workplace.

Amongst those who were willing to fuck their colleagues, anyway.

“This is a post hole, look, I’ve reached the primary fill around it,” murmured Brienne. “I think we’ve got a roundhouse.”

“Shame there are no giant bones in this one,” interjected Oberyn suddenly, apropos of nothing. “Though here in the Reach I gather it’s a touch hot.”

“There’s never been giant remains found south of the Neck,” said Brienne in a lecturing tone.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “We aren’t going to find any giants, but if we’ve got a roundhouse, we need to keep going before your Jaime gets here and starts claiming it’s a temple.”

“He’s not my Jaime,” Brienne muttered, but sped up her digging.

**Day 1, late afternoon:**

Sandor carefully drew the position of the find onto his piece of grid paper that depicted this layer of the trench. Drawing wasn’t his strong point, but he managed.

Suitably recorded for posterity and context, he bent down and picked up the artefact.

“I told you this was a ritual site,” said Jaime, his happy smile making him look like a madman when paired with his ridiculous fucking striped jumper.

Sandor glared at Jaime and Jaime’s jumper. “It’s a fu…” he glanced up at the camera which filming their interaction more closely than normal. “It’s a dwelling.”

“Jaime, not everything is a temple,” said Brienne, with the air of someone repeating themselves for the hundredth time. “Sandor, what is that find?”

Sandor held up the little chunk of dragonglass. Woth the cameraman moved closer. “It’s broken,” he said, “but it’s an owl. Good find, mid-Dawn Age, around the Pact period.”

Jaime gave a low whistle. “Keep it away from Sansa, she hates owls.”

“It’s true,” interjected Brienne, “but she won’t tell anyone why.”

“What?” Sandor shook his head. “No. Everyone likes owls. Who the fuck hates owls?”

Woth lowered the camera and sighed heavily.

***

**Day 2:**

Sandor watched as Sansa carefully brushed soil away from the layer of discarded obsidian shards, which indicated this had been the site of a dragonglass knapping production. She handled a brush with confidence and was obviously enjoying getting her hands dirty on this dig instead of running around liaising between everyone like she usually did.

“Oi Sansa,” Arya Stark paused on her way past, leaning on her ground scanner. Her boyfriend Gendry was behind her, his arms full of equipment. “I’m pretty sure there’s some oil back in the truck if you need any.” She jabbed her thumb at the four-wheel drives parked nearby.

Sansa flushed bright red, but she ostentatiously kept working and ignored her sister.

“Clear off, you little shit,” Sandor said, making a shooing motion with his trowel. “Some of us are busy doing our actual jobs.”

Arya flipped him the bird, but started walking again with her scanner in a careful straight line, Gendry obediently trotting after.

“Sorry,” muttered Sansa.

“It’s fine,” he replied quickly.

They kept digging in comfortable silence, accompanied by the occasional faint sounds of Arya ordering her boyfriend around.

“Oh here it comes,” Sansa said as the distant sound of a helicopter started coming towards them.

Brienne and Jaime downed their tools in the trench beside theirs and hopped over to join them. They all smiled and waved as the helicopter containing Davos, Olenna and Lommy the cameraman flew low over the dig.

Sandor folded his arms and scowled.

“What do you have against owls?” he said abruptly when the chopper had gone past.

Sansa looked startled. “Why are you asking me about owls?”

“Found a dragonglass one yesterday. Lannister said not to show you.”

Jaime squeaked and scurried back to his trench, Brienne stomping after him.

Sansa watched as the helicopter disappeared off into the distance, an expression of contemplation upon her lovely face. “People think I’m weird about this.”

Sandor grunted. “Not much that you could say that would shock me.”

“They have creepy long legs,” she said finally. “All hidden up under their feathers like a terrifying surprise.”

Sandor nodded slowly. “That sounds fucking hideous.”

“Exactly!”

“But I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like owls.”

Sansa laughed. “Maybe I’m different to everyone you’ve ever met?”

Sansa’s walkie talkie crackled to life then, and she walked a short distance to talk on it.

“Sandor,” she said when she came back, all thoughts of owls forgotten. “Olenna and Davos are going to do another pass of the helicopter, but this time Varys needs you to smile and wave, too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

Arya walked past them again, scanning equipment beeping insistently. Gendry trotting along behind her still, now holding up a large antenna as she shouted instructions at him over her shoulder. He followed them faithfully. Poor cuntstruck fool.

“Please?” said Sansa, touching his arm very gently.

He looked down at her. She was close enough that he could see the clear blue of her eyes. They were the same fucking colour of the sky on a perfect cold and crisp summers day in the North.

“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll wave.”

The pressure on his arm increased a little. “And smile?”

Sandor sighed. “And smile.”

When the helicopter swooped them all again, he waved and arranged his lips in what he hoped they would interpret as a smile.

Sansa seemed happy with him though.

**Day 2, evening:**

**From:** Petyr Baelish <PBaelish@RealHistory.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 4th Moon, 998, 4:16:55 PM  
 **To:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** potential collaboration

Dear Dr Sandor Clegane,

You may have heard of my new show, Real History Uncovered Truth, which is my latest project after voluntarily leaving my previous role.

I have an excellent opportunity for you, INSERT NAME, because you have been handpicked to be offered a lucrative role within our highly skilled team. I have heard nothing but good things about your expertise in the role of ARCHAEOLOGIST at Digging Westeros.

Please do not hesitate to get in touch and we can organise an interview.

Yours sincerely,

Dr Petyr Baelish

_Dr Petyr ‘Littlefinger’ Baelish Hon.PhD (Gulltown)_

_Author of “The Barefoot Archaeologist” and “Andal’s Alien Origins”_

_Creative Director, Producer, Consultant and Talent Manager: Real History Uncovered Truth_

_7 secrets to a sucessful career? Ask me how! [click here]_

**From:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 4th Moon, 998, 7:31:29 PM  
 **To:** Petyr Baelish <PBaelish@RealHistory.tv>  
 **Subject:** FUCK OFF

Fuck off.

_Sandor Clegane,_

_Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

**From:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 4th Moon, 998, 7:33:01 PM  
 **To:** Petyr Baelish <PBaelish@RealHistory.tv>  
 **Subject:** Re: FUCK OFF

And you spelled ‘successful’ incorrectly. Cunt.

_Sandor Clegane,_

_Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

***

**Day 3, early morning:**

Sandor regarded his breakfast with a large measure of satisfaction. Fat sausages, crispy bacon, golden hash browns, thickly buttered slabs of fresh toasted sourdough bread, and perfectly fried eggs. Sunny side up with the merest sprinkle of sea salt, because he wasn’t an asshole.

The Digging Westeros head chef Hot Pie was a cunt, but he was a cunt who could cook.

He hadn’t yet managed to sufficiently discourage his colleagues from sitting with him for breakfast, but they’d learned not to bother him until he’d eaten a minimum of two helpings of food and drunk at least three cups of black coffee.

This morning, fortunately, he only had to share a table with Tyrion, who had much the same attitude to requiring sustenance before socialisation, though his dietary requirements were in somewhat lower quantities than Sandor’s. And Podrick, but he didn’t count because he was always busy scribbling down notes relevant to the days digging and never bothered anyone.

“Good morning,” said Sansa, smiling as she slipped into the seat across from him.

He blinked at her. She usually either sat with her sister, or with the multitude of Tyrell’s who always ate and worked together under the auspices of their own personal avatar of the Crone.

Tyrion grunted a greeting, and he remembered his own voice. “Morning.”

Sansa only had toast and eggs, and her eggs were cooked over easy. He tore his eyes away from her food up to her beautiful face and resolved in that moment never to reveal his opinion of people who liked over-cooked eggs.

“Hi Sansa,” said Podrick, finally looking up from his notes. “Did you get an email from Petyr last night?”

Sansa grimaced. “About his new show? I got one last week, but it didn’t even directly mention he wanted to recruit me. I only found out what it was about after Arya got more information out of him before she told him to…” Sansa paused and delicately cleared her throat. “…um, she told him she wasn’t interested.”

“I told him no thanks. What about you both?” Pod looked over at Tyrion and himself.

Tyrion snorted. “I didn’t get one. Probably because of where I once suggested he shove his theories about alien origins of the Andal peoples.”

“I got one,” said Sandor, before taking a large bite of pepper beef sausage.

Sansa leaned forward, waggling her fork between her fingers anxiously. “Have you even met him before?”

Sandor made a point of swallowing his mouthful before he spoke. Not that he normally bothered, but today was different. “No.”

“How did you respond?” asked Sansa, sounding worried.

Sandor speared a particularly crisp strip of bacon with the tines of his fork. “Told him to fuck off.”

Sansa let out a long breath before she sat back in her chair and took a sip of her tea. “But you don’t know him.”

“He misspelled ‘successful’. Told me all I needed to know.”

**Day 3, afternoon:**

“…and I told him to kindly fuck off,” said Olenna. “As I believe did Sandor here, so you needn’t worry, Davos.”

Davos and Olenna stopped when they reached him. The older man was looking almost as anxious as he had before they found out the sour goats milk hadn’t harmed Sansa in any way.

“Most people got one. He’s offering more money than we do.” Davos looked around as if expecting Baelish to leap out from behind a cameraman.

Olenna made a dismissive gesture. “For something that will get cancelled the moment people tire of his ancient alien theories.”

Davos frowned. “Surely no one would want to watch a show about ancient aliens?”

Sandor leaned against the bonnet of the nearest four-wheel drive and snorted. “You should hear some of the theories about who built the Meereenese pyramid.”

Davos furrowed his brow. “Slaves?”

“Workers,” corrected Olenna, crossing her arms. “And it was far more straightforward than scholars used to think. But some of those who don’t understand the mathematics of it want to claim humans couldn’t possibly build anything that advanced so it must be aliens.” She leaned forward for emphasis. “And don’t get me started on those who claim aliens built the Wall. They deny the proven magic of the Children of the Forest and the utterly ground-breaking alliances they formed with giants and the First Men, just so they can claim that otherworldly beings built it? Ridiculous.”

“Bran the Builder was an ancestor of mine,” said Sansa, who had appeared with Lommy and Varys. “The Antimagickers should check Winterfell’s extensive records before making claims like that.”

Their arrival sparked a flurry of activity, and in a mercifully short time they were all set to film his experimental archaeology demonstration.

He and Davos perched beside each other on one of the huge mounds of dirt that surrounded their trenches. Some forward thinker had draped a tarpaulin over it so at least he wouldn’t look like he shat himself when he stood up again.

“Now Sandor, we know that the Children of the Forest extensively used dragonglass tools and weapons during their war with the First Men, before the Pact was created which lead finally to peace between them.”

Sandor nodded, concentrating on looking like he was seated comfortably upon the dirt mound.

“We all know here on Digging Westeros that you are one of Westeros’s foremost experts on Dawn Age cultural artefacts, but what is less known is your skill in actually making some of these items.” Davos looked into the camera. “This is a skill which is incredibly difficult and takes years to learn. You’ve even got your own personal flint knapping kit, correct?”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sansa edging forward, clipboard clutched against her breasts. He kept his attention on Davos and tried not to think about those breasts.

Sandor unrolled the kit and draped the leather over his thigh. He hefted the largest stone so both Davos and the camera could see. “I’ve got the hammer stone here. Has to be much harder than the material I’m shaping. This stone I found in an ancient riverbed in western Dorne.”

Davos hummed appreciatively, then looked to the side. “Sansa, if you could bring our special item?”

Sansa produced a chunk of dragonglass from the knapsack on the ground at her feet and bought it over to him. She hunkered down on the mound beside him, thereby improving the quality of the shot immensely.

“Sansa will be joining us as she has an interest in learning flint knapping,” said Davos cheerfully, “or as we are doing today, dragonglass knapping.”

This was the first he’d heard of her special interest. She hadn’t mentioned it on the plane, but he sure as fuck wasn’t going to object.

Somewhere in his head, the voice of reason reminded him he shouldn’t even be considering dipping his wick into the company pool because this job paid far more than academia and he needed the money to fund his project. Sansa Stark was off limits.

He dragged his focus back to the activity he was indeed being paid to do.

He rested the chunk of obsidian, dragonglass, on his leather covered thigh.

“Now I brace the dragonglass against my thigh like this, and use my leg as an anvil while I chip a large flake off the main rock.”

Sansa and Davos watched him avidly as he started to hit the obsidian.

“This initial step was usually done near where the rocks were quarried, so when we dig sites with large flakes we know that we are near to a source of material. The trench we were working on yesterday showed this, and you’ll see similar debris as I work.”

He lifted the hand sized chunk he’d chipped off.

“Now,” he continued, “I’ll chip flakes off alternate faces, hitting out and across like this, and then back like this.” He deftly struck the dragonglass a few times and chips flew off.

He held it up. “Now as you can see, I’ve got a roughly shaped sharp edge here.”

Sansa looked enthralled as she watched him work. “And could you cut something?” she asked.

He passed her one of the smaller pieces of leather from his kit. “Hold this with both hands.”

Sansa held up the leather, eyes sparkling.

He scraped the sharp edge downwards, splitting the material effortlessly.

“And I can further refine it with pressure flaking,” Sandor said, “as they would have for more heavily worked items such as an arrowhead, or even an object like the owl we found.”

He showed them how he could use the tip of his deer antler against the edge of the large flake, to chip off a tiny amount in a controlled way.

Sansa’s perfectly pink lips were parted as she watched him recreate history with his own hands. “That’s so skillful,” she said, her voice husky.

Fuck.

Yes, he was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the rest of his long life, Sandor never did, in fact, reveal to Sansa his low opinion of people who liked over-cooked eggs….


	4. Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (voiceover): “Two centuries before the Doom, Dragonstone was built by the Valyrians using magic now lost to our modern world. Dragon fire could liquify stone, and the results of this are seen in the towers here that are themselves shaped like dragons, though many have fallen into ruin over time. The Targaryen family escaped the Doom by relocating here and ruled this island for one hundred years before Aegon’s conquest of mainland Westeros. We will be looking for evidence of these ancient dynasties in the extensive grounds, as well as exploring the culture they bought with them to Westeros. Will we find evidence of any lost towers? Will we find traces of dragons? As always, we have just three days to find out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book canon rather than show canon for Dragonstone’s appearance (and that of its owner). Also, ever since reading the ASoIaF books years ago, I’ve low-key had a crush on Willas Tyrell. It’s such a shame he and Garlan weren’t in the show. 
> 
> This chapter was inspired partly by the, um, classic Stephen Fry nature video, “Shagged by a rare parrot”. It was filmed in my country of birth, and the undeniably best place in the world, New Zealand (what didya say? Nah bro, I’m not biased. I dunno what yous are talking about!).

**Day 1:**

Gendry skidded to a halt beside the four-wheel drive, out of breath and flushed pink from exertion. “Sansa, we have a goose problem.”

Sansa looked up from her perusal of the map and frowned. “A what problem?”

“I can’t find Varys,” puffed Gendry, sweeping his black hair out of his sweaty face, “and there are three angry geese blocking our ground scans. Arya’s protecting the equipment, but we need assistance.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do with geese?” said Sansa nervously. Her mind supplied hideous visions of huge birds, snapping their beaks and being generally ferocious. “I’m not an ornithologist.”

Sandor, who had been studying the Dragonstone map with her, finally gave his attention to the situation. “Are you scared of birds?” he asked her, ignoring Gendry.

She switched her frown over to Sandor. “Is this about the owls again? Because I sent you those photos of their terrifying legs.”

She and Sandor had been exchanging evening and weekend emails since the last dig, mostly about work. Sometimes about owls. Occasionally an article of archaeological interest. Once Sansa sent him a meme she thought was funny. Once Sandor sent her a how-to picture set for flint knapping.

Absolutely no flirtation.

Sansa kept reminding herself of that.

“No,” he said with his half-smile, “apparently it’s now about geese.”

Sansa huffed. “Fine, it’s just large flappy birds I’m not so fond of. Cute little bids are fine.”

“Cute little birds, eh?” Sandor looked her up and down, an expression of contemplation on his face.

She resolutely ignored him in favour of Gendry again. “I’ll go and talk to the owner of Dragonstone. Why don’t you go and ask some Tyrells if they’ll try to help to chase them off? Maybe if Willas waves his cane around, they’ll scatter.”

Dragonstone was huge and windswept, but they’d all been given a map with their potential filming and digging schedules, so it wasn’t too hard to track down the person presumably responsible for the geese.

Sansa was oddly excited to meet the woman who owned Dragonstone, who was an actual descendant of the famous Targaryen family, complete with the traditional platinum hair and odd personal habits. Sansa didn’t know why she was so impressed by this, given that both she and Arya were actual descendants of the famous Stark family. In balance, though, her own family history of ruling the North and associating with direwolves seemed tame compared to dragons, sibling marriage and gods flipping coins at your birth.

No one needed to flip a coin when a Stark was born. They always turned out reasonably level-headed. Even Bran, who currently ran a high-tech vegan commune in the Dornish desert, of all places.

As it happened, Davos was filming a segment in the receiving rooms of Dragonstone, talking to and taking herbal tea with Daenerys Targaryen when she found them.

She hovered anxiously to the side with Varys, while Davos asked Daenerys about the history of the keep. Sansa tried not to note how much time was passing. She sent text messages to various people asking about the geese situation but the only person who replied was Sandor who wrote that he wasn’t dealing with any f-wording geese unless it involved basting and roasting them.

Sansa winced at the word ‘basting’ and resolutely did not think about anyone’s glistening torso.

She was willing to admit she had a little workplace crush on Sandor. Just a small one. That was as far as it would go though. She’d get over it eventually and, in the meantime, just had to be professional.

When the heavily staged ‘informal chat’ with Davos had finished, and he and Varys had headed off to check on the goose-free test pits, Sansa outlined the situation. Daenerys seemed receptive when she explained the importance of getting ground scans in order to best aim their dig sites. She was less keen when Sansa suggested moving the geese.

“But this is their home,” said the Targaryen woman, a small frown line appearing between her delicate brows.

She was very attractive, with large, luminous, violet coloured eyes. Sansa had never seen anyone with that shade of eye colour in person, though she knew it was a hallmark of Valyrian ancestry. Daenerys was tiny too, close to Arya in size, and Sansa felt like she was looming over her.

“Is there anywhere you put them at night? Like a shed?” Sansa asked, ignoring how much time this was taking. “Perhaps just while the scans are happening.”

“They are my children and need to express themselves fully.”

Sansa ran through her pre-prepared mental list of polite responses and found it sadly lacking in this circumstance. “Your children,” she eventually repeated neutrally.

Daenerys straightened to her full height, still well short of Sansa’s chin. “I am the Mother of Geese,” she intoned.

Sansa squinted at her, trying to determine if this was elaborate performance art. “Would you like to accompany me to the area? Perhaps your… children will follow you rather than menacing our geophysics crew.”

Daenerys huffed, clearly getting vexed at the thought of marshalling her flock. “I need to dress first,” she said eventually, though she was already wearing a perfectly acceptable maxi skirt and floral print blouse.

There were still no SMS responses to the goose situation as Sansa waited for the other woman to change.

When she came back through, the only difference in attire was a surfeit of accessories. Daenerys fluttered down to the site in a flap of blue scarves and indignation. Sansa trailed along behind her, feeling dowdy with no scarves at all, just her clipboard, tablet and a burgeoning headache.

The pristine white geese had corralled various Tyrell grandchildren into a little cluster with Arya and her assistants. Loras seemed particularly unhappy, and Arya appeared to be berating him.

One goose had stolen Willas’s cane.

Oberyn, apparently unmolested by the birds, sat in the bed of one of the trucks, swinging his legs off the edge and sketching the scene.

“Ahh and so help has arrived,” he said cheerfully to Sansa.

Daenerys knelt gracefully and called out something in High Valyrian. Honking excitedly, all three geese waddled over to her. The one with the cane dropped it at her feet.

Oberyn lowered his sketch pad. Sansa studied his drawing. He’d captured Arya’s scowl and Loras’s expression of existential horror rather well. The geese appeared suitably menacing too, all pale feathers and belligerence.

“Do you speak High Valyrian?” he asked Sansa.

“Only to tell people my name and ask how to find the nearest bus stop,” she replied.

“Well she’s promising the geese fire and blood,” he said casually, in the same tone of voice one would use to order a coffee. 

Sansa’s jaw dropped and she swivelled to watched as Daenerys animatedly discussed something with her geese.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “But we still need to continue this dig.”

Arya and her crew were already scanning the ground like true professionals, occasionally casting hostile glances over to Daenerys and her ‘children’.

Oberyn slid tidily off the back of the truck. “The goose issue is under control, and the digging can commence once the scans are revealed. Do not fret, lovely Sansa.”

Oberyn retrieved Willas’s cane from amongst the gaggle without any issues, earning only a low hiss from the smallest goose.

“Viserion, play nicely,” admonished Daenerys, in the common tongue. “Follow the example of Drogon and Rhaegal.”

Oberyn returned Willas’s cane with a kiss on the other man’s cheek. It had recently come to light that they and Oberyn’s paramour Ellaria were in a polyamorous relationship. Sansa wondered what Olenna thought about this unconventional arrangement.

She jumped and squeaked with alarm as the largest goose hissed at her.

“I shall take the children back to my house,” intoned Daenerys.

It took Sansa a moment to recover both from being hissed at and hearing someone refer to the giant keep as simply a house. “Thank you,” she said when she’d recovered her composure. “We shall resume our dig.”

**Day 1, evening:**

**From:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
**Sent:** 22nd day of the 4th Moon, 998, 7:45:55 PM  
**To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
**Subject:** GOOSE

[goose_attacks_bystanders.gif]

_Sandor Clegane,_

_Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
**Sent:** 22nd day of the 4th Moon, 998, 7:59:25 PM  
**To:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
**Subject:** Re: GOOSE

Lol yes very funny. Next time you can wrangle the geese!

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

**From:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
**Sent:** 22nd day of the 4th Moon, 998, 8:04:23 PM  
**To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
**Subject:** Re: GOOSE

No, my only interest is in little birds.

_Sandor Clegane,_

_Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

***

**Day 2, morning:**

**Trench 2 Inventory:**

**pottry shard (unknown) - 5**

**pottery shard (Valyrian) - 15**

**remains of towers (Brienne confirmed dragon melted stone) – left in situ**

**shaped stone (other) – possible later addition?**

**toils – 5**

**probable remains of crenellation – cockatrice, hellhound, minotaur, manticore – check w Olenna**

**probable crenellation (unidentified)**

Sansa frowned at the list. What did Jaime mean by ‘toils’? Tiles perhaps, though she imagined the floors of Dragonstone would have been flagstones. Hopefully he remembered to record the locations of the finds, though Brienne would have no doubt reminded him.

She stood next to a little cluster of four-wheel drives parked near where the Goose Incident had happened yesterday, in the area of Dragonstone known as Aegon’s Garden. It was more of a large field than a garden, though what were apparently heirloom wild roses ringed the area. Olenna had amassed quite a pile of rose clippings for her own personal collection, before deeming the dig conditions too damp and disappearing off into the library where Tyrion had also been hiding.

The air wasn’t any soggier than, say, the godswood of Winterfell which always had the mugginess of the nearby hot pools seeping over it. Dragonstone felt heavier and salty, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“Okay, that was a good shot of you leaning against the truck and quietly reading the list,” said Lommy, lowering the camera. “Did you want to try that again, but reading more actively? Varys said he wanted you lot to be livelier, more engaging.”

Sansa stared at Lommy in disbelief. “How do I read something more actively?”

Lommy shrugged. “Looks like he’s worried about…” Lommy covered the microphone and whispered, “Petyr’s new show.” He resumed his normal speaking voice. “We need to start sexing things up a bit.”

Sansa shook her head. “There is nothing sexy about archaeology.”

It was then that she heard the distant echo of Sandor’s voice saying something that sounded distinctly like “Fucks sake.”

Sandor and Arya were on their way over to their corner of the site, mismatched in size but companionable in temperament. Arya was waving a sheet of paper around that was almost as tall as her.

“Maybe you could drape yourself over the front of the truck?” said Lommy hopefully.

Sansa didn’t take her gaze away from the newcomers as she said “No,” to Lommy in the same tone of voice she remembered her mother using on Rickon when he asked for a direwolf tattoo on his fourteenth birthday.

Lommy sighed and raised the camera to film Arya and Sandor.

Sansa was relieved when Sandor refrained from making any obscene gestures.

“I’ve got the scans from where we didn’t get to yesterday,” said Arya without preamble when they came close enough to hear.

“Weren’t you supposed to do the whole area?” asked Sansa.

“Geese,” replied Arya darkly, then spread the large sheet of paper out on the bonnet of the truck. “There is an increase of resistance at each end of the garden. Jaime and Brienne are going to take one side, but I was going to suggest you and the Tyrell’s take this other end. It’s just over there.” She pointed to an area about twenty metres away.

Distant honking shattered the calm and Lommy lowered the camera with a frown. They all turned to see the geese entering the far part of the garden at a rapid pace.

“Shit,” said Sansa, eyeing the oncoming gaggle with trepidation.

Arya laughed, heedless of their apparent peril. “Wow Sans, you said a no-no word. I haven’t heard you swear since that time Shaggydog stole your clothes when we were in the hot pools at home.”

Sandor coughed into his fist, though it sounded suspiciously like he was covering a laugh.

“Okay, this is urgent,” Sansa said, resolutely ignoring the memories of bolting through Winterfell in a bikini and towel. “Remember yesterday, Arya? You were one of the people trapped by the geese.”

“Only because I wasn’t allowed to ‘persuade’ them to leave us alone,” said Arya mutinously.

The honking was getting louder.

“Perhaps they’re heading towards the Jaime/Brienne trench?” said Sansa with no small amount of unease.

They had no such luck.

Led by Drogon, the geese ran at them in a wave of hissing, honking, and flapping.

Before she even had time to gasp, and far more swiftly than she would have expected, Sandor swept her behind him and shielded her from attack with his body. Sansa clutched the back of his shirt with both hands so she didn’t trip over with the force of his motion. She was close enough catch his scent of sandalwood and coffee, with a faint hint of the earth he’d been digging in.

“FUCK OFF,” bellowed Sandor, and his back tensed up underneath the faint brush of her knuckles. There was a brief pause. The geese stopped their charge and stared at him. “NOW!”

Honking with profound indignation, the geese waddled a short distance away and then turned and stood watching them disconsolately.

Sansa let go of Sandor’s shirt and stepped backwards, trying to appear nonchalant. Arya and Lommy still fixed in place where they’d been before the geese arrived.

“Thanks for saving my sister and just leaving me here, to get, you know, murdered by geese,” said Arya, her voice dry.

Lommy stood beside her, looking wild eyed.

Sandor grunted noncommittally.

“Maybe I should still go and fetch Daenerys again,” said Sansa, regarding the geese suspiciously.

**Day 2, afternoon:**

Lommy lay down on his stomach to get a shot over the edge of the trench. “Just use the brush on a chunk of wall, and look like you are archaeologising,” he said to Pod. “Varys wants more engagement with the younger archaeologists.”

“I’ll just clean off this section of wall here,” said Pod, pointing with his brush, “which is my actual job.”

Sansa kept half an eye on proceedings as she used her tablet to check the status of various trenches.

There was an ominous hissing noise as Drogon waddled over with his owner in tow.

Sansa greeted Daenerys with a smile and some trepidation. “Hi Daenerys,” she said with outward faultless politeness. “Did you want an update on our finds? Brienne found quite an interesting stone manticore foot in her trench.”

The Targaryen woman shook her head. “Drogon and I were just taking the air. He asked if he could come back down here to see you all.”

Sansa didn’t allow her smile to falter. “I… see…”

Drogon hopped up onto Lommy’s back, and Daenerys clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, he likes you! He wants to play!”

Lommy laughed, a touch nervously, and craned his head to the side to try to see the goose. “I’ve never been walked on by a bird before. He’s turned friendly.”

Drogon honked with excitement and started flapping and making rhythmic movements against Lommy’s back.

There was a heavy silence, broken only by the goose noises.

Sansa put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my.”

“Um?” said Lommy. He tried to stand, only to be met with a flurry of honks and nips at the back of his head.

“I think he wants to be friends,” said Daenerys, sounding happier than Sansa had yet heard her.

Sansa cleared her throat, gaze locked upon the thrusting goose. “Pod, quick, go and get Sandor. The geese respect him.”

“This is not what I expected from today,” said Lommy, more than a hint of resignation in his voice.

Sandor and Pod arrived back in less than a minute, during which time Sansa stared in horrified fascination at the event unfolding in front of her.

“Wow, he’s certainly going for it,” said Pod when they stopped to survey the scene.

Sandor barked a laugh. “Aye, that goose really wants to fuck you,” he said to Lommy.

Lommy let out a long and drawn-out sigh. “I knew I should have gone to work for Petyr. He would have paid me so much more.”

“Just relax and let it happen, mate. He’ll eventually get bored of making you his bitch,” Sandor said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Sandor,” said Sansa in a warning tone.

“Fine,” Sandor huffed, and picked up Drogon mid-thrust.

Sansa stepped involuntarily backward as the bird flapped wildly before Sandor placed him on the ground a safe distance from Lommy. Pod pulled the cameraman to his feet.

“You’re stifling his instincts,” said Daenerys, rushing over to embrace the goose, holding him to her breast.

Drogon honked dejectedly.

“Go and hump one of the other geese, you randy fucker,” said Sandor.

***

**Day 3:**

Willas Tyrell was, Sansa had discovered, renowned across Westeros for breeding exceptionally fine hawks for the ancient pursuit of falconry. He was also, therefore, the natural choice to teach Sandor the sport as the experimental archaeology segment for this dig.

Tyrion had dug up some information in the Dragonstone archives about the Targaryen family’s habit of using dragons instead of hawks or falcons. Lacking dragons, Willas’s Highgarden hawks would have to do.

At least this dig’s segment wouldn’t involve her drinking strange beverages or having to watch Sandor sexily hitting rocks with other rocks.

The man in question seemed to be enjoying himself at present. Sansa stood with Daenerys, who was mercifully goose-free, watching the men.

“Now if you open the box, a little,” Willas was saying, “I’ll lift Thorn out.”

Sandor carefully opened the box enough for Willas to remove a large brown and white hawk with his gloved hands. The hawk pulled its head back towards its body and glared around with dark, fathomless eyes.

“Is the bird normally this calm?” asked Davos, leaning over to eye the bird.

“He’s comfortable in the dark, carpeted box,” replied Willas. “Now Sandor, pop the hood over his head.”

Willas held the bird whilst Sandor deftly slipped a little hood over its head, aiming the beak for the gap in it.

“The hood keeps him calm and quiet,” Willas explained. “While we fit the leg bells and jesses.”

Davos hummed. “Can you explain to us, please, what jesses and leg bells are?”

“The jesses are leather straps that we place on the birds legs. They work like the collar on a dog, and we can attach a leash to them, though we don’t need to do so today. Bells let us know where the bird is.”

Woth stood patiently, camera focused on what Willas was doing. Lommy had apparently refused to film anywhere but safely in the library with Tyrion and Olenna. If anywhere that contained both Tyrion and Olenna could be deemed safe.

“With this type of jess, we thread the leather through itself,” Willas said, skillfully tying a thin strap around each of the hawk’s legs, his cane dangling from a strap over his arm.

“And this is an ancient technology,” said Davos. “People have been doing it for thousands of years.”

Sandor stood and watched, avidly following the proceedings. Sansa was glad that they had found another experimental archaeology segment that he found enjoyable. She wasn’t looking forward to telling him about their plans for the next dig.

“Be confident in the handling,” Willas said to Sandor, “which will transfer itself to the bird. They can sense it. I like to attach bells to the leg, above the jess, and I have some waxed thread here so if you could attach it for me.”

Sandor bent over the bird, his huge fingers nimble as he carefully handled the bells and thread. Sansa found herself mesmerised by his hands. What else could he do with such dexterous fingers?

She only half paid attention as Willas showed Sandor and Davos Thorn’s perch and explained about the importance of cleanliness and feeding the bird a variety of high-quality food.

“You swing the lure around like this, and the bird will dive for it. Just keep a nice even swing and he will go for the meat.”

“I should train my children like this,” said Daenerys suddenly.

Sansa jumped. She’d forgotten the other woman was there. She had the brief and unseemly thought that perhaps they should put a bell on Daenerys, so they always knew where she was.

Sansa jumped again when, in a flurry of surprisingly quiet honking, the geese came over to join them.

This dig was doing nothing good for the state of her nerves. She was getting another tension headache.

The geese clustered beside their ‘mother’ and observed Sandor swinging the lure around with interest. The middle-sized goose, Rhaegal, advanced towards the men, his long neck swinging with every loop of the lure.

Sansa looked frantically between the goose and the men, waving to get their attention. They were all focused on Thorn.

“It’s times like this that you can really see how birds are descended from dragons,” said Daenerys.

Sansa paused mid-wave and took a moment to process that startling statement.

Modern genetic analysis of ancient dragon DNA had shown that birds and dragons had a common ancestor millions of years ago and were therefore cousins of a sort. The flood basalt volcanic event that caused the Doom of Valyria also made accessing the vast majority of fossil evidence for dragons very difficult, but luckily some few remains had survived in Westeros.

Sansa always felt sad when she thought about dragons. Magic had left the world with their extinction; caused not by any great cataclysm, but by a small population size and lack of genetic diversity.

All of this flew through Sansa’s mind before she decided to respond with a neutral hum. There was a time and a place for education. Whilst watching a goose try to sabotage a falconry demonstration was not the time.

Rhaegal chose that moment to waddle frantically after the lure.

Daenerys clapped her hands. “Oh see, he’s joining in.”

Thorn the hawk took one look at the incoming goose and did a sharp left turn, heading swiftly away from the lure and off into the trees, away from sight.

Woth lowered the camera and stared open mouthed.

“Well fuck me sideways,” said Davos, watching where the hawk had disappeared.

Sandor, to Sansa’s surprise, clapped Willas on the back, gently enough that he didn’t lose his footing. “Your hawk’s got a radio transmitter as well as the bells, aye?”

Willas sighed. “Yes, but we’ll have to coax him down from wherever he went.”

“I’ll help you go and get him then,” said Sandor.

Rhaegal let out a series of loud honks of triumph, and everyone except Daenerys glared at him.

“Daenerys please,” said Sansa as nicely as she could through gritted teeth, “would you mind putting your geese somewhere else?”

Daenerys said something in High Valyrian to the geese. It was definitely not anything about names or buses, and Sansa wished Oberyn was here to translate.

Daenerys and her gaggle of ‘children’ flounced off.

Sansa left the men to go on a hawk hunt and she headed back to their accommodation, in search of painkillers and a raise in salary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later that year, at the Digging Westeros annual Sevenmas party, roast goose was served. 
> 
> (Thorn the hawk was fine, and went on to win Willas many prizes in falconry competitions in the following years.)


	5. Winterfell Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenge for you – try to say ‘Dr Clegane’ three times fast. Is it just my weird hybrid Aus/NZ accent that tripped me up (I seriously struggle to say it and I'm usually a pretty good talker 😂) or is it an international tongue twister?

The Stark family had their own private hot pool.

Tourists crowded into the other pools, even in the off-season, but this one had long been reserved for family only. It was situated separately and was totally private, so Sansa had no worries about donning a bikini to relax in the water, or wearing her hair in a messy bun atop her head.

She generally went to visit her parents in their ancestral home of Winterfell when there was a longer than usual break between digs. It wasn’t like she really had anywhere else to go. The only other place she’d lived for any length of time was Kings Landing, and there was zero chance she’d go back there voluntarily. Besides, Sansa was not inclined to get her own place that she’d have to pay for and hardly ever see. Arya felt the same. She and Gendry often came here on their time off too.

Sansa took a deep breath, letting the steam fill her lungs. The quiet was blissful, and she only noticed the vague rotten-egg smell of the hot water when she first came home each time.

She could float and not think about work.

No digs, no geese, no obscure types of home-made alcohol. No stupid sexy colleagues.

Simply relaxation and idyllic quiet.

Her phone beeped.

Sansa thought a swear word but didn’t say it aloud.

She dried her hands on her neatly folded towel and leaned over the edge of the pool so she could read the message.

**Sandor [4.53pm] – reading your article on ritual in early First Men Burials**

Her heart gave a little flutter. Sandor was seeking out her work to read? She’d published that article ages ago.

And he was SMSing her too, rather than the more professional email route. Not that emailing memes to each other had been terribly professional.

The phone beeped again.

**Sandor [4.54pm] – thought your theory on placing flowers in the graves was shit**

Sansa huffed a laugh. Clearly she couldn’t ignore that provocative message.

**Sansa [4.55pm] – you are referring to the new potential evidence that local avian species transferred plant material to the grave sites, rather than humans placing flowers there?**

**Sandor [4.56pm] – aye. First Men burials are associated with weaponry mainly**

**Sansa [4.56pm] – I’m aware, but my interpretation of the analysis of soil samples leads me to believe in the flower theory. The graves were primarily non-warriors after all. Even early on, First Men cultures had a robust ritual life, and having bird droppings be the medium that transferred plant material seems unlikely.**

**Sandor [4.57pm] – Fuck me, Little Bird, you are taking a wild stab in the dark**

Sansa frowned. He’d made up a nickname for her? It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on where she’d heard it before.

**Sansa [4.58pm] – Little Bird????**

**Sandor [4.58pm] – You remind me of one at work, always chirping at people. A theory only reinforced by your denial of the bird shit in soil evidence**

**Sansa [4.59pm] – It’s contested evidence! And if you call me Little Bird on our digs, I am absolutely calling you the Hound.**

**Sandor [5.00pm] – suits me!**

Sansa smiled at her phone. Okay, she was supposed to be relaxing, but it gave her a warm feeling in her chest to be hearing from Sandor.

Arya’s loud voice intruded on her thoughts. “SANSA ARE THINGS G-RATED IN THERE?”

Sansa shut her eyes and held the phone to her forehead briefly before clicking the ‘sleep’ button and putting it down on her towel.

She pushed off the edge and floated back in the pool, spreading her arms out to balance herself as she floated. She kept her eyes shut.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” she said at a normal volume.

Arya’s footsteps sounded beside the pool. “Are you texting Sandor?” she asked with a smile in her voice.

Sansa resisted the urge to open her eyes and glare at Arya. “Maybe. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I just didn’t want to walk in on phone sex. Awkward.”

“Wait, how did you know I’d been texting Sandor?” Sansa gave into the urge and fixed Arya with a scowl. Her sister was wearing her day clothes still and carrying what looked like a magazine, rather than a towel.

Arya tilted her head to the side and gave Sansa a searching look. “Your face is all red. You always look like that when you flirt with him.”

“I don’t flir…” began Sansa shrilly, before what Arya had been saying sunk in, “wait, do I really go red?”

She pressed the palms of both hands against her cheeks, which did feel hot. So did her palms for that matter, since she was in a hot pool.

“Yes. It clashes with your hair. It’s pretty funny.” Arya looked utterly unrepentant.

“Arya!”

“We’ve started a betting league about when you two will fuck,” Arya continued.

Sansa groaned. “Arya don’t be crude. Anyway, that wouldn’t be professional. We’re colleagues.”

Arya gave an extremely unladylike snort. “That never stopped anyone else.”

“Jaime and Brienne haven’t, nor Hot Pie and Varys,” said Sansa, floating closer to the edge.

Arya shrugged. “Don’t worry, we’ve got a betting pool going about when Hot Pie and Varys will spare us all that sexual tension in the mess tent. Do you want in?”

“No!” said Sansa indignantly.

Arya raised an eyebrow.

Sansa sighed. “Fine. Put me down for the third week of next month.”

“Noted,” said Arya, giving a single nod. “Good choice, that’s a popular month.”

“And nothing will happen between Sandor and I.” Sansa rolled her eyes.

Arya grinned and crouched down so she could place the magazine down on the towel, beside the phone. It was Sansa’s print copy of _Modern Archaeologist_. “If you say so,” she said, bouncing back to her feet with typical grace.

“I do say so.” Sansa sank lower so the water covered her shoulders, and it lapped at her chin as she spoke. “I don’t want to just…” she grimaced over the words, “have sexual relations with someone and not be in a relationship.”

Arya raised both eyebrows this time. “Sexual relations. You make it sound like a transaction.”

Several unwelcome memories came to mind.

“Is it not?” she said, trying to sound neutral.

“Seven Hells, Sansa. Is this about Joffrey?”

“No,” replied Sansa shortly.

It was about Joffrey. Sex with him had been a disaster. She’d been mostly celibate in the years since she’d broken up with him, and with good reason. It had been a relief to devote herself entirely to her work instead of worrying about relationships, and to great success.

Arya looked sceptical. “Most guys aren’t complete cunts like Joffrey. We’ve all noticed that you don’t date. It’s made our betting pool that much more competitive.”

Sansa tried to slump further down into the water without covering her mouth. “I’m trying to relax, Arya, not think about Joffrey.”

Now she was thinking about him. At least it was a low bar that Sandor had to clear to improve on that experience. Not that there was anything going on with Sandor.

Sansa’s phone beeped with another message.

Arya eyed it with great interest.

Sansa ignored it.

“You should check that,” said Arya with a knowing grin. “I bet it’s not Sandor at all. It’s probably only Margaery complaining about her beloved Grandmama, or Lommy wanting counselling after the goose fucking incident.”

Sansa ostentatiously ignored her sister and pulled herself a little way out of the water. She dried her hands on the uncovered edge of the towel and grabbed _Modern Archaeologist_ before settling to drape herself over the edge of the pool on her front, so her bottom half was still in the water. She opened it and started flicking through, picking an article at random.

“ _Comparative Trowel Width: Kings Landing Trowels Versus Braavosi Trowels_ ,” read Arya aloud, craning her neck to see. “Well, that’s fascinating. I can see why you’d rather read that than check your phone for messages from the huge angry colleague that you want to rub oil onto.”

Sansa kept ignoring Arya. She personally favoured the thinner Kings Landing model of trowel, but she could see the benefits of the wider models favoured over on Essos.

Arya made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “Alright, you win, but I’m only leaving you alone because Mum’s opening the good wine and she said she’d day drink with me since it’s the weekend.” Arya turned to go but then snapped her fingers as she apparently remembered something. “Forgot to say, Dad said to tell you we’re having his famous venison casserole for dinner, so you need to be on time.”

Sansa hummed and finally spoke. “That’s fine, I’ll float and read the magazine for a little longer then I’ll be in.”

“Okay,” Arya said, grinning. “Enjoy the sexting.”

“Arya!”

Sansa eyed her phone once she was alone again, but didn’t check the message she’d received.

Just to spite Arya.

There was a pause. Sansa thinned her lips and tapped her finger on the magazine.

Sansa really wanted to check the message.

She groaned and kept paging through the magazine.

She couldn’t help but notice the two-page spread for a pink set of archaeology tools.

“That’s so sexist,” Sansa said aloud, going to turn the page.

She paused and squinted at the advertisement.

The trowel had the option for a sparkly lacquered handle. Sansa sighed and folded the corner of the page over as a reminder to look at it later. She did like a bit of sparkle. 

She kept turning pages.

An advertorial about the importance of proper footwear during fieldwork.

No.

A puff piece about a meditation retreat in the middle of the Dothraki sea, with a programme specifically designed for stressed out archaeologists.

No.

An article entitled ‘ _Carbon Dating and You, Romance in the Chemistry Lab_.’

Absolutely not.

“This is ridiculous,” Sansa said, and grabbed her phone.

**Sandor [5.10pm] – How is Winterfell?**

Sansa’s eyes widened. She hadn’t known Dr Sandor Clegane very long, not in person anyway, but he was notorious for not making small talk.

She was pretty sure asking about her weekend was small talk.

**Sansa [5.29pm] – It’s always good to catch up with our parents and see home again.**

She looked at the message, then felt brave. Before sending, she opened the photo app and snapped a tasteful selfie of herself partially in the water, on her knees, leaning over the edge towards the camera.

There was a hint of cleavage.

Well, more than a hint. She was wearing a bikini, after all.

She attached the photo to the message and pressed send before she could talk herself out of it.

Just a photo of herself enjoying her weekend, sent to a colleague she was friendly with.

People posted far more revealing photos of themselves to social media all the time. Margaery for one had an account where she was always posting photos of her yoga-pants clad bottom that she called ‘belfies’.

Sansa stared at her phone. The photo had registered as sent. There was an unreasonably long time where the three dots showed that Sandor was composing a reply.

**Sandor [5.34pm] – looks hot**

Sansa squeaked as the message came through. Which part did he mean was hot? He probably meant the steam coming off the water. The photo was very steamy.

**Sansa [5.35pm] – it’s lovely in the hot pools. So relaxing. How’s Lannisport?**

She wouldn’t mind if Sandor sent her a photo in reply.

**Sandor [5.39pm] – getting some research done ahead of next weeks dig in Cuy. Once I work out how the fuck to pronounce Cuy. It’s the ass end of nowhere and no one’s ever heard of it.**

He’d attached a photo, but not of himself. It was of what must be his desk in his study. The desk sat covered in notes, and Sansa recognised Sandor’s scrawling handwriting on many of them. There were a few framed photos, though none featured people as any more than vague figures in the background. They were of dig sites mostly, with one photo of a black cat.

Sansa was oddly disappointed he hadn’t sent a photo of himself. He can’t have minded being in photos too much, given that he’d agreed to appear shirtless in a magazine before. He wasn’t really the kind of person to take selfies, though.

Memories of Sandor’s photoshoot momentarily distracted Sansa, before she replied. 

**Sansa [5.41pm] – According to my production notes you say it “kwee.”**

**Sandor [5.41pm] – See I was saying it “Swee”**

**Sansa [5.42pm] – Oh gods now I’m doubting myself.**

“Cuy. Cuy?” Sansa said, trying out the different pronunciations.

Sansa let out a long breath as she grimaced at the phone. Had she done the right thing sending a photo of herself? Would Sandor think she was being inappropriate? The photo he’d sent in return was perfectly acceptable for an exchange between colleagues. She’d deliberately included cleavage in hers.

“Oh my gods,” she said aloud.

“Arya said I shouldn’t just walk in on you, my darling,” said her mother, appearing at the entry to the pool area with a glass of red wine in her hand.

Sansa yelped in surprise and dropped her phone guiltily. Luckily she’d still been partly out of the water, so it landed on her towel.

Catelyn frowned. “I said I didn’t think you’d be doing the things she claimed you’d be doing. Arya does have a wild imagination.”

Sansa felt her face flame redder than it already was. “I’ve just been reading _Modern Archaeologist_ and texting about our next dig with a work friend.”

“Dr Clegane?” Catelyn said immediately. “Arya showed me the shirtless photos of him from the online edition of Westeros History Quarterly. He’s certainly ripped.”

“Wait, they’re available online?” Sansa blurted before the horror of her mother referring to Sandor as ‘ripped’ could register.

Catelyn took a dainty sip of her wine. “Most things are available online, dear. It’s the nine-nineties, almost the new millennium, not the nine-eighties.”

Sansa made a mental note to get herself an online subscription. For work reasons.

She cleared her throat. “I was just getting out. I’ll come and join you for pre-dinner drinks.”

“That would be lovely. Robb and his new girlfriend will be coming over too, I gather she’s quite a fan of your show.”

**Sansa [5.47pm] – Family dinner time! Good luck for the research, let me know if you find anything interesting**

**Sandor [5.48pm] – Will do**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn and Ned would love their children to get married and/or produce some grandbabies, but do understand the importance of both careers and getting to make your own life choices without pressure (even though Catelyn managed to produce 5 children whilst having a successful career as a surgeon. Ned spent a lot of time at home looking after them, putting his political ambitions on hold for a time). Catelyn’s betting on Robb settling down first, since that lovely Jeyne girl seems keen for many babies.


	6. Cuy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (voiceover, pronouncing Cuy as ‘Kwee’): Situated in the far south Reach, equidistant from Oldtown and Starfall, Sunflower Hall was the famous seat of House Cuy. According to our sources, the town of Cuy rose up around the outside of its Keep walls. My namesake, Ser Davos the Dragonslayer, was rumoured to have been born in this area during the Age of Heroes though, so which is right? Had there been a settlement here since that mythic age, or is its history more recent, dating from the time of the great Gardner Kings of the Reach?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay, I've been sick (not pandemic related, fortunately). I hope you are all keeping safe and well, and enjoy this chapter 😊

**Day before Day 1:**

The taxi driver kept trying to make polite conversation. Sandor had just been folded up into a tiny seat on a commercial flight from Lannisport to Oldtown and then been informed they’d organised a taxi rather than one of the Digging Westeros vehicles to take him the fucking long way from Oldtown to Cuy. Of all the things that interested him right now, polite conversation did not feature.

He pulled out his work laptop and hotspotted his phone so he could at least check up on emails and appear too busy to chat.

**From:** Vargo Hoat <vargo_hoat@liammacs.com >  
 **Sent:** 31st day of the 4th Moon, 998, 4:23:05 AM  
 **To:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** LOTTERY WINNER

Attention My Dear,

It has come to my Esteemed Attention that you are the lucky winner of 7.8 MILLION GOLD DRAGONS of the Bank of Kings Landing lottery for lucky Value customers of the Bank of Kings Landing. Right now! your First Payment of 50000 GOLD DRAGONS is About to send today through your Bank of Kings Landing money transfer service. We Simply need you to transfer 5000 GOLD DRAGONS processing fee to our OFFICIAL bank accunt and we will send your First Payment of 50000 GOLD DRAGONS.

Reply to my alternative email to recieve my account details: vargohoat69@dreamsicle.puff

Your immediate response would be appreciated.

REMAIN BLESSED,

MR VARGO HOAT

“Really? Fuck off,” Sandor said to the email as he hit the delete button.

The taxi driver looked alarmed, gripping the steering wheel tighter as they sped through the excessively lush and showy Reacher countryside. He may have been born in a shitty small town near Lannisport but give him the stark beauty of the North any day.

“Not you,” Sandor growled to the driver. He clicked on the next message.

**From:** RHUT Team! <RSVP@RHUT.tv>  
 **Sent:** 1st day of the 5th Moon, 998, 1:59:43 PM  
 **To:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** IMPORTANT INVITE INSIDE

We’re about to change the face of Archaeology across Westeros! And beyond!

Dear Sandor Clegane, You are cordially invited to witness the first exciting dig of Real Archaeology History Uncovered!

We’ll be live streaming this ground-breaking event as well as filming it for what will be our first episode of what’s sure to become Westeros’s premiere Archaeology show! Special guests include Lysa Arryn from Eyrie Pure Solutions™, Cersei Lannister of Real Housewives of Kings Landing, and ‘Biter’ from the Harrenhal Fire Spawn football team.

RSVP with “YES PLEASE! I’M READY FOR HISTORY!” in the subject line to secure your spot and watch Archaeology Come Alive!

“Seven Hells, the Lannister sister,” said Sandor, deleting the message with all due haste. “And the dumb cunts didn’t even include the event details.”

It came as something of a relief to see Sansa had sent the next email, even if it had been sent to a group rather than him individually.

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 1st day of the 5th Moon, 998, 2:31:15 PM  
 **To:** Archaeology and Geophysics Crew Members  
 **Subject:** IMPT: Dress Code

Hi everyone! 😊

Just a reminder to wear lightweight clothes tomorrow, as per the instructions in the production notes for this dig. Suitable apparel for on-camera work, according to our guidelines, is short-sleeved shirts for the men and short-sleeved blouses or tidy tank tops for the women. We’ll be in the Reach, but the climate is similar to Dorne this far south, so prepare accordingly.

I know instructions around clothing proved controversial last time we worked in a hot climate. I have discussed this with Varys, and he wants to institute a definite no-nipple rule. For all nipples please: male presenting, female presenting, and other. So please do keep this in mind.

See you all in Cuy!

Sansa

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

Finally, something relevant, though he’d never thought of his nipples as ‘male presenting’ before. Not that he ever thought much about his nipples. He hadn’t intended to go shirtless for the dig, anyway. It was bad enough the world (and apparently Sansa Stark) had seen him shirtless in that fucking photo shoot. He had lost count of the number of fan messages he’d received from horny middle-aged women since the magazine had come out.

He looked back at the laptop. The tiny, feral Stark sister had replied.

**From:** Arya Stark <AryaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 1st day of the 5th Moon, 998, 2:45:19 PM  
 **To:** Digging Westeros archy and geo peeps  
 **Subject:** RE: IMPT: Dress Code

FREE THE NIPS!!!!!!!!

_Arya Stark_

_Geophysicist, Digging Westeros_

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 1st day of the 5th Moon, 998, 2:52:51 PM  
 **To:** Archaeology and Geophysics Crew Members  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: IMPT: Dress Code

Not this time!

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

Sandor snorted with amusement. He was sorely tempted to reply-all to the group with a gif of a tit bird, but he had a grouchy reputation to uphold.

He sent an SMS to Sansa with a link to an interesting article on ancient kiln firing techniques instead.

**Day 1:**

It felt as hot as the Maiden’s cunt in Cuy.

Sunflower Hall dominated the skyline of the tiny southern Reach port town of Cuy, however the fuck you were supposed to pronounce it. Apparently, a cooling sea breeze was too much to ask, given that Sunflower Hall blocked any of that and left the town to swelter. Typical cunt nobility, taking all the cooling for themselves.

The dig was pretty much in the middle of town, in a large common area that featured plain grass with a few scattered shrubs. A kids' playground and public facilities sat off to the side and the Digging Westeros site tents beside those.

The place fucking swarmed with locals gawping at them. The crew had roped most of the field off, so they had space to scan the ground and dig as needed without being swamped by a bunch of gormless cunts. He hoped he would not have to play nice with any local amateur Archaeology groups. Those twats wouldn’t know an early Dawn Age drinking vessel fragment from a Pact Era beaker rim.

The only good part of this was seeing Sansa standing nearby, chatting to one of the locals, in tiny shorts and a sleeveless top that clung in all the right places.

Though he had seen more of her in the photo she had sent him from Winterfell.

Fuck.

That photo had been of her lovely face, with a hint of porcelain cleavage visible in the bikini she had been wearing.

She clearly had an inexplicable attraction to him. He was not a stupid man. If offering to lube him up, then lusting after his knapping skills hadn’t made it clear, then that photo did.

He wished he had been less craven and sent her one of his face in return. Maybe let her know the attraction was more than mutual by sharing more of himself than his fucking desk.

No woman would want to see his ugly fucking face on her phone screen though. He’d become used to being desired for his body and profession, and that had got him plenty of pussy in his time, but that was despite his ruined mug, not because of it. He hadn’t been with a woman in far too long. Ever since he’d woken up one day and realised he couldn’t remember the last time any woman had wanted to look at his face while they fucked.

He suspected that would not be an issue with Sansa.

His resolve to not have a workplace relationship was weakening more and more each fucking day.

He scraped along the wall of the trench, pleased with the clear tiers of different coloured soil revealing distinct habitation layers. He had already found the remains of several broaches, of all things. 

Sansa was still talking to the cunt from the village. The elderly local man looked dumbstruck, like he could not believe the sexiest woman in Westeros was chatting to him.

He could fucking relate.

Sansa and the man moved closer, presumably so she could show him the work they had done already.

Sandor paused and stretched his back, looking around the site as he did so.

Jaime was scraping away fill across the trench from him, with a hangdog expression on his face. Doubtless because Brienne of bloody Tarth had been ordered to work with the Tyrells this morning since they were short-handed.

He and Jaime had already found several potential early Dawn Age broaches, which did not link to any mythical figures that Davos had been spouting about, but probably represented the pinnacle of Jaime Lannister’s career to date.

Woth the cameraman looked like he would come over to this trench too. He stood near Hot Pie’s mess tent, fingering his camera and casting sly looks at them. At least it wasn’t Lommy this time, who had set up over on the far side of the field with Brienne, and Olenna’s coven. The goose shagging incident had shot the poor cunt’s nerves.

He hoped he would have the chance to talk to Sansa this morning. She still hadn’t told him what historical re-creation activity he’d be doing this week, just that it would take most of his afternoon on Day 3. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than fashioning a unicorn horn into a musical instrument?

He bent back down and scraped away more of the dirt. Was that another broach? He had better hide it from Jaime. The excitable bastard would probably start hyperventilating before he remembered about Brienne and got sad again.

Sansa moved even closer, almost to the edge of his trench.

“We don’t normally get so many spectators,” she said to the old man, gesturing to the crowd.

“Nothing much happens in Cuy,” the local replied. He pronounced it ‘Kooay’. “This visit from Digging Westeros is the highlight of the social calendar.”

Sandor listened with half an ear, literally in his case, as Sansa and the old man chatted then headed off to gather Varys for more discussions.

The sweat got in his eyes as he spent the morning digging off and on camera and talking to Davos, who came around several times for updates.

It was when Oberyn showed up that Sandor realised that the crowd had become thickest around the trench where Jaime and Sandor were working.

Jaime was defying the nipple ban and had taken his shirt off after the most recent broach find. There had been a generalised murmur of interest from the crowd. Arya Stark, who, he’d been relieved to see, was wearing clothing, had walked past a few minutes earlier with her radar and shouted “Free the nips,” to Jaime and raised her hand in salute like nipples were a fucking human right or somesuch.

Jaime had seemed flattered but confused. He probably didn’t check his emails.

Oberyn Martell had arrived with all his art gear just after the last filmed segment. He examined the broaches from Sandor’s trench and declared his muse to be thrilled with the finds and that he’d be drawing a scene showcasing these remarkable artefacts. He positioned himself on a stool nearby and hunched over his drawing pad, muttering in Dornish as he drew.

“I wish to discuss your attire,” Oberyn said suddenly.

Sandor stopped mid swipe of his trowel. He looked down at his short-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts. “What the fuck is wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Sansa arrived again just as Oberyn said, “I wonder if you might agree to going shirtless like our golden colleague for my drawing.”

Jaime waved cheerfully.

Sansa sighed. “Did anyone read my email about the nipple ban?” she said plaintively.

“How one presents oneself is important,” said Oberyn, “observe my choice of attire.”

Sandor leaned against the digging surface and looked properly at him. Oberyn wore tiny denim cut-off shorts and a brimmed hat with a jaunty feather sticking out of the band.

“Those are woman’s shorts,” said Sandor, narrowing his eyes at the offending garment.

Oberyn rolled his eyes. “Look at you, my masculine friend, so greatly wedded to the binary. There are no such things as men’s clothing or women’s clothing. There is just clothing, and it serves our purpose, showcasing our assets.”

Sandor huffed. Oberyn did have very shapely legs, but Sandor knew the reception he would get if he admitted that. “You look like a twat,” he said instead.

Sansa gave a squeak of alarm, but Oberyn tipped his head back and laughed. “Indeed, indeed,” he said. “But that is the point I am trying to make. Lack of clothing can also make a point, and my muse would like to draw two shirtless men heroically toiling away in the hunt to dig up more broaches.”

“I don’t think…” Sansa began, sounding slightly manic.

So much for not removing his clothing in public again.

“Please do not feel pressured,” said Oberyn, smiling broadly.

Sandor sighed and tugged off his shirt. He liked to think there was a louder murmur from the crowd than there had been for Jaime fucking Lannister. Sansa made a sound like an elephant had decided to step on her chest. He might be ugly as sin, but his body was nothing to be ashamed of.

Oberyn grinned happily and settled in with his pencils, motioning Sandor back to the dig.

Sansa muttered a few words that sounded like they were trying to be the common tongue, but not quite succeeding, and then scurried away.

“I don’t think it is my infinite charms that cause Dr Stark to flee in such a state,” murmured Oberyn, not taking his eyes off his drawing.

“Fuck off,” replied Sandor, without heat.

“I suspect one of those words is correct for where things are going between you,” said the Dornishman.

**Day 2:**

Sandor angled the tray of dirt-encrusted lumps towards the camera. “These are definitely First Men broach clasps,” he said, chipping a tiny portion of dirt with his thumbnail to reveal a sliver of bronze underneath. Bad practice, and Podrick would need to clean the rest properly when he escaped from Olenna’s clutches on the far side of the dig, but this was TV after all.

“So what does that tell us about the likelihood that Cuy was, in fact, a settlement dating from the Age of Heroes? Perhaps with a connection to Davos the Dragonrider?” Davos said, with a ‘Kway’ pronunciation.

“Well, the First Men inhabited this part of Westeros until the Andal invasion around five thousand years ago. We’d have to date the metal to get a definitive answer about any connection for Cuy to the Age of Heroes.” Sandor waved the broach around for emphasis. “The time of the First Men stretched over thousands of years, remember. I think it’s possible, though.”

Sandor had been pronouncing Cuy as ‘Kooee’ for that morning’s on camera work, mainly because it made Varys’s eye twitch each time and that was pretty fucking funny. Sansa had a gleam in her eye that suggested she knew what he was up to.

Davos hummed and leaned forward in his seat, gesturing to the masses of local fans watching them. “And it’s been mighty special having so many townsfolk here to view the dig. How do you find working with an audience?”

Was Davos fucking serious? That was a Jaime Lannister question, not a Sandor Clegane question. Sandor didn’t give a shit about a bunch of dead-eyed Reacher twats. He looked out at the gormless bastards clustered around the fence. His gaze swept past Sansa, who shot him a pleading look.

He suppressed a sigh. “Aye, it’s been extremely gratifying to have such an enthusiastic audience,” he lied, even managing to conjure up a fucking smile. “The people of Cuy have been most welcoming.”

He pronounced Cuy as ‘Sway’, just to mix it up a bit.

He was rewarded for his nice answer with a smile from Sansa. Seven Hells, he was becoming pussy-whipped.

The worst thing was that he even felt like it was worth it to see her smile.

She had a fucking beautiful smile.

“Archaeology is a very serious profession, isn’t it?” said Davis brightly. “All these little pieces of long dead people’s existences. It is a great calling to be able to bring light to their lives. A truly noble profession.”

Sandor would not go that far. Rescuing abused animals was noble. Running a shelter for battered women was noble. Fighting bushfires was noble. All he did was dig shit up.

“Aye it is,” he agreed anyway. “The whole business has to be taken seriously. You’ll find that digs are calm, studious places.”

“Does anyone want a Choccy Yum Yum?” Jaime’s voice shattered the moment.

Lommy grimaced as he lowered the camera, then quickly checked over his shoulder, presumably in case any geese had wandered into the dig.

They’d better not have to shoot that again. He hated the ‘causal informative chats’ part of his job.

Jaime came into view, holding a large box of chocolate biscuits.

Davos made a face. “Why aren’t you digging, lad?”

Jaime looked sad and clutched his biscuit box closer. “I missed getting chocolate biscuits from the mess tent ever since Hot Pie went on his health kick,” he said. “I saw there was a corner store only a block away.”

“Fucks sake, Lannister,” huffed Sandor.

“Choccy Yum Yums!” said Arya, appearing from fucking nowhere with a gaggle of crew at her heels.

They descended upon Jaime like a crowd of first-year students on a free keg of ale.

Moments later Jaime stumbled free and approached him.

“Do you want a Choccy Yum Yum, Sandor?” Jaime grinned and shook the box invitingly. “I still have a Balerion the Black Dread and a Sheepstealer. Arya took the last Meraxes.”

Sandor snorted. “You should be doing your fucking job, not eating your bloody feelings.”

Jaime harrumphed. “Fine,” he said. “No Choccy Yum Yum for you.”

“I didn’t fucking say that.” Sandor grabbed Jaime’s arm to stop him from leaving. “I’ll take a Balerion the Black Dread.”

Sansa finished talking to Varys and Lommy and joined them.

“Do you want one, Sansa? Davos?” Jaime shook the box again.

Davos shook his head no and headed over to where Varys and Lommy were looking at a monitor that showed the footage they had just taken.

Sansa nodded and selected a Dreamfyre. “We can’t get the Dragon shaped ones up North. Aunt Lysa always used to post us a box every Sevenmas when we were children.”

“The Direwolf Choccy Yum Yums were nicer anyway,” said Arya, swooping in for seconds. “You just liked the Dragons because you thought the South was better than home.”

Sansa made a dismissive gesture with her dragon. “The Direwolves were all the same. You didn’t get different shapes and sizes like the Dragon ones.”

“You can get Lion shaped ones in Lannisport,” said Sandor, before biting Balerion the Black Dread’s head off. “I can’t imagine they’d make it north of the Neck either.”

The North of Westeros was still prickly about historical issues relating to governance from the South. He knew certain things were protected cultural items, but not that they had gone so far as to restrict chocolate biscuits.

Sansa chewed meditatively on her Dreamfyre. She started from the tail, he noticed. “We also can’t get, oh you know that sugary cereal…” She scrunched up her nose in thought, then smiled and clicked her fingers. “Dragon-o’s!”

Jaime looked aghast. “Imagine growing up without Dragon-o’s,” he said in hushed tones.

“What’d you have instead? Wolf-o’s?” asked Sandor, half jokingly.

“Yes,” replied Sansa, waving her Dreamfyre at him. She had daintily nibbled off its legs. “They were shaped like little direwolf heads.”

Arya sighed happily. She’d already finished her second biscuit. “They were great.”

Varys clapped his hands. “Back to work now.”

“Choccy Yum Yum?” asked Jaime. “All the popular dragons are gone but there is a Cannibal.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly partake,” he said, “I’m watching my waistline.”

“That explains Hot Pie’s health kick in the mess tent,” whispered Arya.

“Now back to it please, everyone,” said Varys, ignoring Arya. “These artefacts wait for no man!”

**Day 3:**

“Leggings?” said Sandor, looking with disfavour at the black mass of material in Tyrion’s hand.

Tyrion rummaged around in the box of clothing in front of him. “Well sources show that Dawn Age Reachers wore skirts and padded jerkins under their armour.” He huffed in triumph and held up a garment that did indeed look like a short skirt. A slight breeze came into the tent and made it ruffle invitingly.

“Skirts?” said Sandor, scowling at the tiny garment. It looked big against the Imp but would doubtless be ball-baringly indecent on him.

For some reason Oberyn’s voice telling him there was no such thing as male clothing and female clothing came to mind.

Tyrion tapped his foot impatiently whilst Sandor gathered his thoughts. “Have you been rendered unable to communicate?” asked the Imp. “Yes skirts. I suggested you may prefer the sports leggings. They’ll look better under the armour on camera, anyway.”

“Fuck you, Oberyn,” Sandor muttered quietly, giving the skirt a hard stare.

Tyrion blinked several times. “I’m sorry, what? I can see why you’d mistake me for a tall, handsome Dornish artist with a penchant for seducing Olenna’s grandchildren, but I think you’ll find that I am Tyrion Lannister, historian, dwarf and perpetual disappointment to my father.”

Sandor frowned. Get talking to the fucking Imp and you’d verbally end up in Skagos, when the conversation started in Lannisport. “Yes I would prefer the leggings.” He held his hand out and Tyrion passed them over.

He didn’t bother to go anywhere else when he dropped trou and got changed. The tent was reasonably private and anyone who came barging in would deserve the eyeful they got.

The faint hope that it might be Sansa arose and he ruthlessly supressed it.

He pulled the leggings on and then the tunic that Tyrion handed him. Tunics were supposed to be loose, but this one was… not.

Sandor looked down at himself and winced.

He looked fucking ridiculous. If he bent over the tunic would split and the leggings were so tight they left nothing to the imagination.

Tyrion’s lips twitched. “You certainly appear authentic to the, ah, free spirit of the Reach.”

He’d rather be wearing Oberyn’s tiny little denim shorts than this get up.

Sarella Sand stuck her head into the tent, then gave him a frank appraisal, not bothering to hide her grin. “Looking good, Sandor,” she said, “Sansa needs you both.”

Sandor huffed. He had to fucking go out in public in this fucking get-up.

Tyrion patted his arm, because apparently he could read minds. “You won’t see it under the armour.”

Sandor stormed out, not bothering to grace the little shit with a reply.

Sansa was out in the middle of the grassy knoll, talking to an ancient crone. An enormous young man stood beside them.

“Oh hi Sandor…” said Sansa. She glanced over at him then froze in place, her mouth open. She looked him up and down, and then her gaze lingered on his legs. He felt slightly better about his ridiculous leggings.

There was a lengthy pause in which Sansa didn’t speak.

He watched her watch him. His annoyance faded a little and he wondered what else he could do to provoke that stunned expression on her face. Possibly with the use of his tongue.

“I feel like I’m wearing sausage casings on my fucking legs,” he said instead, firmly pushing his mind out of the gutter.

“Hodor?” said the young man from behind the ancient woman.

This nonsensical uttering seemed to break Sansa out of her trance, and she looked up at Sandor’s face, her cheeks bright red. “Sausage casings. Yes, well. Hi.” Sansa visibly collected herself. “Um. We’ve got some boiled leather armour for you to wear for the experimental archaeology. Hence the, er, tight clothing underneath.”

Sandor tugged at the lower edge of the tunic. “Good, because I’m not going on camera in a fucking gimp suit.”

“We were told to expect a large man for the demonstration,” said the elderly woman, who was so ancient she made Olenna Tyrell look like a dewy-eyed undergrad student, but her voice was still strong, “so you are to borrow the set my great-grandson Wylis here usually wears.”

“Hodor,” said Wylis, nodding.

Neither the old woman nor Sansa commented on the hodoring so he didn’t ask. If the young man was a few bananas short of a fruit salad, he wasn’t so much of a dick that he’d fucking comment on it. He figured Sansa would tell him if it was important.

“Old Nan has done a lot of work for the Cuy live action role playing group over the years,” said Sansa, pronouncing it as ‘Kwee’. “I know her and Wylis from my childhood in Winterfell. She taught all my siblings and I in kindergarten.”

Wylis nodded and smiled at Sansa. “Hodor.”

“But it’s too cold up there for these old bones. So here we are in Cuy,” said Old Nan, with a ‘Kwai’ pronunciation. “Nice and hot.”

“Wylis will help you with the armour, and Old Nan will run you through some foot soldier drills on camera. Davos is coming any minute and I just need to speak with Tyrion for a moment.”

Sansa scurried away with only the barest glance over her shoulder at him. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. If she’d go that red. If she’d lose the ability to form coherent sentences.

Old Nan adjusted her glasses and peered up at him. “Well look at you, dearie.” Her gaze lingered much in the way Sansa’s had, though she grinned lasciviously instead of blushing. “If only I were fifty years younger, I’d give Sansa over there a run for her money.”

“Hodor,” agreed Wylis.

“Have you met Olenna Tyrell?” Sandor asked, frowning. “I think you’d like her.”

The old crones teaming up was a deeply terrifying thought, but it might distract them. Keep them out of trouble by starting a fucking knitting circle or plotting world domination or somesuch.

Old Nan continued undeterred. “We have the ‘Bad Boys of Archaeology’ special edition wall calendar in our living room, so I’m going to call you Sandor. I’m too old to call anyone Doctor anything. Sansa’s mother replaced both my hips and I still call her Catelyn.”

“Hodor,” said Wylis, picking up a large pile of armour that Sandor hadn’t noticed sitting on the ground behind him.

Old Nan pursed her lips. “Yes, yes Wylis, I do prattle on.” She fixed Sandor with her gimlet eye. She’d have made a fucking terrifying kindergarten teacher. No wonder all the Northerners he met were a bit eccentric. They were all fucking traumatised. “Wylis will help you with the armour, as Sansa said, then you’ll run drills with the rest of our society members.”

Sandor’s thoughts just registered what she’d said about the wall calendar. Obviously the gimp suit was cutting off blood circulation to his brain. Fucks sake. That bloody photo shoot was going to haunt him forever, and the topless stuff from Day 1 would end up in the final cut of the episode knowing his luck.

Thankfully Davos chose that moment to show up and swept Old Nan away for a casual on camera commentary.

He stood still whilst Wylis, hodoring quietly, dressed him up like a big ugly doll and Old Nan cackled with Davos and discussed the armour. He was no expert, but it was post-conquest Reacher armour, probably from the end of the Gardener Kings period. The doming on the leather segments had little flowers printed on it and the bottom of the thigh armour was scalloped. One of the Tyrells should be doing this instead of him. Loras maybe, he’d make a pretty Knight.

There was only one good thing about spending an entire afternoon, on camera and in the sweltering heat, dressed up in a gimp suit and boiled leather, being shouted and hodored at by an old woman and her great-grandson, respectively. That good thing was Sansa, who watched him avidly and kept sending Sarella off for iced water so he could dunk his head to cool off.

He even considered asking Sansa out to dinner at one point, during an endless series of marching drills conducted by Old Nan. Maybe the heat was making him crazy. Sansa probably just wanted to fuck him, and wouldn’t want to spend any time talking to him. Who the fuck would, realistically?

Not that he would find out unless he asked her. Would it hurt to try? Sansa was always nice to people. She’d probably agree just to spare his feelings. They’d hardly interacted all fucking dig, just a few words here and there. A few long stares. Even in the evenings they had exchanged fewer messages than usual. There seemed to be an odd awkwardness.

His idea for asking her out lasted as long as it took Sansa to bound over to him when the interminable fucking drills were finished and hand him the bowl of icy water.

He grunted a brief thanks, dunked his head, and scurried off to peal himself out of the armour and gimp suit.

Fuck, he was craven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hodor’s birth name was Walder in the books and Wylis in the show. I went with Wylis here, for no other reason than I like that name more.


	7. Queenscrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (leaning casually against the bonnet of one of the Digging Westeros 4-wheel drives, talking to the camera): Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen came to stay in Queenscrown, situated in the Gift, between Castle Black and Last Hearth, at some point between the years Fifty-Eight AC and Ninety-Three AC. She flew here on her beautiful dragon Silverwing, on their way to a fabled viewing of the Wall. The stone holdfast tower where Queen Alysanne slept and the nearby village have been in ruins for centuries, but will we be able to find some dating evidence for her visit? Will we find Targaryen relics here in the heart of the North? As always, our Digging Westeros Crew has just three days to find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! This chapter went completely bonkers and is enormously long, so I hope you enjoy it 😁
> 
> I was wanting to get my eye in with some smut practice (for... reasons...) so last week I wrote a one-shot called [Therapy Session](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293983) if you want some smutty goodness in your life!

**Day 1, very early morning:**

Sansa yawned into her cup of tea. She would keep it together today. Not make a goose of herself, as Dad would say, in front of Sandor. She had quite recovered from seeing him in skin-tight leggings in Cuy, with every muscle and bulge on full display. She was a grown woman with a slight crush on a colleague, that was all, and she was in total control of herself.

Sansa huffed a breath out, and it clouded white in the cold air of her caravan. It was nice to be staying onsite, and at least the tiny size of her accommodation meant she didn’t have to share, but she had a soft spot for hotels. Nice, warm, hotels. With large empty beds.

She yawned again and opened her email app with her free hand to distract from potential questionable thoughts of Sandor. There was a message from Aunt Lysa, whom Sansa had never heard from before outside of the yearly generic Sevenmas message that her aunt sent to the whole family.

**From:** Lysa Arryn <DefaultUser0003@EyriePureSolutions.west.com>  
 **Sent:** 6th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 3:31:55 AM  
 **To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** Good News!

Guess what?! 💋

I’ve done something so exciting that I’d love to share with you. 🙊

I’ve recently started my own online business as a 🔥 brand ambassador 🔥 for a global Health and Wellness company called Eyrie Pure Solutions™. I’m super duper in love with their Pure Solutions Organic Vegan Face Masque™ 🌝, it’s an incredible earning opportunity and the rewards are insane.

I’m on the look out for incredible women who love to make a difference, to be my first business partners. I think you’d be great because…. (insert why they’d be great). You can earn as much or as little as you want! 😘

Are you open to just taking a look at what I’m up to? 

If I shared a short video would you watch it just to take a peek? 🙈

Love from Aunt Lysa

Sansa blinked a few times at the message, then closed it and opened her SMS app.

**Sansa: did you get an email from Aunt Lysa?**

**Arya: she’s a fucking idiot**

**Sansa: it doesn’t even sound like her, she’s never that friendly. Do you think she’s on drugs?**

**Arya: did she insert why you’d be great?**

Sansa read back through the bewildering email, then laughed.

**Sansa: omg it says (insert why they’d be great). I missed that the first time I read it**

**Arya: it’s a fucking multi level marketing thing anyway. she wants to recruit us, then she’d get a cut off whatever shit we sell. Then we’d have to recruit more people. It’s dodgy as fuck.**

**Sansa: oh like those messages I always get on social media from old school friends I haven’t talked to in years, asking if I want to sell dietary supplements or makeup**

**Arya: I get those. They always start by praising my enthusiasm and positive attitude so they clearly have no fucking clue. I tell them to fuck off back to whichever of the seven hells MLMs come from**

**Sansa: I just say no thanks. Arya you don’t have to be rude.**

**Arya: yes, in this case I fucking do, otherwise they never take no for an answer. Anyway let’s tell Mum about Aunt Lysa**

**Sansa: I wonder if Aunt Lysa sent that message to her?**

**Arya: doubtful, Lysa is fucking scared of Catelyn**

**Sansa: to be fair, Mum is a bit scary**

**Arya: oh shit, you’d better get down here. Petyr ‘LITTLEFUCKHEAD’ Baelish just arrived.**

**Sansa: WHAT!?!?!?!**

**Day 1:**

“Good morning Sansa,” said Olenna, eyeing the Real History Uncovered Truth buses that had been parked near their own Digging Westeros vehicles. She looked like she’d smelled something particularly noisome, and Sansa recalled Olenna’s contentious relationship with Petyr Baelish.

As far as Sansa knew Olenna had never forgiven Petyr for challenging her interpretation of a Children of the Forest petrified tree circle on one of their early digs together. Having differing opinions was perfectly normal, and even made good television. Jaime, for example, came up with off the wall theories all the time. The difference between Jaime and Petyr was that everyone liked Jaime because he was a nice man who shared his chocolate biscuits with his colleagues, and Petyr was the type of person who did not.

Margaery stood beside her grandmother, holding a cocktail that Sansa was willing to put money on was not her own. “We can’t start digging. Petyr’s people have parked their catering bus over where Arya found the best geophysics results.”

“What are they even doing here at the same time as us,” Sansa said, frowning at the distant figures of Petyr and Varys, having a conversation near the RHUT buses. She shifted her grip on the stack of papers, clipboards, and a tablet she carried.

Olenna plucked the cocktail out of Margaery’s hand and took a sip. “Petyr is trying to cause trouble and disrupt our filming. Pump more bad science out into the world through an ejaculation of poorly thought-out theories and television of dubious merit.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose. She kept her gaze on Varys and Petyr. They were still talking, Petyr waving his arms around to emphasise a point. “I should go and save Varys from being ejaculated on then,” she said faintly.

“Yes, do take one for the team, my dear,” said Olenna, apparently cheering up because Sansa would deal with the situation.

Sansa sighed and made the brief walk over to stand with her boss. She fixed a smile on her face and stood beside Varys with a cheerful, “Good morning,” to the men.

Petyr’s gaze flicked down to her chest, modestly covered by a thick jumper. “Sansa,” he said gently to her breasts, “how lovely to see you again.”

Sansa tried not to breathe, since it would only draw his attention further. She had never considered how much she appreciated Sandor talking to her face, or at least to the area to the side of her face, depending on his mood.

Varys followed Petyr’s gaze and sighed. “I would deeply regret having to phone our lawyers. They do so blow out our expenses.”

Petyr’s smile didn’t waver as he looked back at Varys. “I’m sure we can work through this like reasonable people.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. Reasonable people. She recalled distinctly a year or so ago when Petyr refused to dig because Sarella Sand bought him his ivory handled trowel instead of the amber inlayed one.

Varys adopted the same smile he used the time that Jaime insisted that the First Men burials on a dig were temples. Even after Brienne showed him one of the skulls. “Reasonable people. Yes. We have got the correct permits to stay and dig in this part of the Gift. Do you?”

“Permits are in the eye of the beholder,” replied Petyr, looking around back at his buses.

“And Cersei Lannister is here too?” Varys said, “I can’t imagine her contract would allow for any unadvantageous press coverage if it came out that you were in any way trying to usurp a pre-planned filming event.”

Petyr gave an almost genuine looking smile. “Cersei Lannister is safely tucked away in the make up bus for now. All our guest stars are under control. I’m sure we can both take advantage of this historical site with no bother.”

“Well yes indeed,” said Varys smoothly, “I’m sure the professionals will handle that for us.”

An attractive young red headed woman holding a clipboard came scurrying over to Petyr. Sansa looked down at her own clipboard and frowned.

“Dr Baelish,” the young woman said urgently, “Mr Biter is causing bother in the make up area.”

Petyr grimaced, very faintly. “Well. Varys, Sansa, it was pleasant to see you both.”

He gave a slight bow and hurried off with the red head.

Varys scowled at Petyr’s retreating back. “I have some phone calls to make,” he said darkly.

“I’ll find Arya,” said Sansa, watching Petyr to make sure he went to the RHUT buses and not anywhere else to cause trouble, “and see what scans she’s done with the disruption.”

Arya was easy to locate as she was scurrying away from the RHUT buses with a haunted expression. “Aunt Lysa is here,” she hissed at Sansa. “Hide.”

Sansa looked over Arya’s shoulder. Aunt Lysa strode towards them with a determined air. “We can’t hide, Arya, she’s seen us.”

Arya grabbed Sansa’s arm. “Okay just freeze. She’s like a dragon. If we don’t move, she can’t see us.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a myth,” said Sansa sceptically.

“Stop being so fucking factual, Sansa Stark,” Arya said through gritted teeth.

“Oh gods, here she comes,” Sansa said in despair.

“Sansa, Arya.” Aunt Lysa arrived in a pungent cloud of what was presumably Eyrie Pure Solutions™ fragrance. “How lovely to see my favourite nieces.”

Sansa drew herself to her full height, looking down on her diminutive sibling and aunt. “Aunt Lysa. How are you?”

“I was just thinking about you both. I noticed neither of you has replied to my important email.”

“It’s not really my…” Sansa yelped as Arya dug her sharp elbow into Sansa’s side, “ow… our thing. We’re both busy with our jobs here, it doesn’t leave time for selling skincare products to our friends and family.”

Aunt Lysa waved her hand dismissively. “You are both television personalities. It would be easy to market to your existing social media followers, family, old school friends you haven’t seen in years. What a wonderful way to connect with a potential network of like-minded individuals. You’ll find people love getting constant special offers and reminders of how much money they are missing out on making.”

Arya growled audibly. “It’s a fucking pyramid scheme, Lysa.”

“Well. I don’t know why you would be so against a company that allows me to be in charge of my own destiny as an online entrepreneur. Or, as I like to call it, mumtrepreneur.” She gave a modest laugh. “I’m able to be a stay at home mother to my Sweetrobin and be part of a community of open-minded positive people.”

Arya and Sansa exchanged a glance.

“Your Sweetrobin is twenty-two,” offered Sansa gently, “and he’s a software developer with his own house and a fiancé. I’ve met her. She’s lovely.”

“Have you considered getting a pet?” said Arya. “I’ve heard that sea slugs are quite rewarding.”

“You need a mentality change, young lady,” said Aunt Lysa, sternly, scowling at Arya. “Such negativity.”

“I’ll give you fucking negativity,” began Arya, clenching her fists.

“There you ladies are,” said their cousin Jon Snow, arriving with impeccable timing. He wore the plain black uniform of the Night’s Watch National Park rangers. “It took me awhile to find you. The guy from the Harrenhal Fire Spawn football team apparently bit some people and ambulances are blocking the road. I always thought his nickname was just a joke.”

“Jon,” said Sansa with relief. She felt terrible for forgetting about his visit with all the issues over Aunt Lysa and the RHUT crew. “How was your drive down from the Wall?”

“Aye it was good. Edd came along for the ride since we’re only here for the day, but he saw Cersei Lannister from that TV show was here and now he’s trying to get her autograph.”

Aunt Lysa frowned. “I don’t know why dear Petyr invited that two-bit hussy to our new venture.”

Arya mouthed the words ‘ _our_ new venture’ to Sansa and Jon with a bewildered expression.

“Are you closely involved in Petyr’s new programme, Aunt Lysa?” asked Sansa.

Aunt Lysa nodded enthusiastically. “Ever since I read Petyr’s book on how the Andal settlers of Westeros were in fact helped by an alien race that also built the pyramids of ancient Ghis and then Meereen, I’ve been a huge fan.”

“You really like pyramids then, Aunt Lysa,” said Arya, with a commendable lack of irony in her voice.

“How have you been, Lysa?” asked Jon politely.

“You didn’t reply to my messages, Jon,” Lysa said sadly. “Your cousin Rickon gave me your email address and I couldn’t resist giving you such a special opportunity.”

The corner of Jon’s eye twitched. “I’ll thank Rickon later,” he said. “But no thank you, there isn’t much call for skin care products in the Night’s Watch.”

“But Jon,” said Arya, grinning, “how do you maintain that baby soft complexion?”

“Perhaps I could give you a tour of our dig, later on?” said Sansa, trying to distract her Aunt. “Show you what Arya and I do. I’m sure there will be plenty of interesting history to see here.”

“Petyr has shown me around digs before,” said Lysa, dismissing Sansa’s offer with a wave. “I can’t believe it’s something that adults require qualifications to do. Proper scholars like dear Petyr, that makes sense, he comes up with the big ideas. But grubbing around in the dirt? That seems like an activity for children.”

Sansa prided herself in the ability to maintain politeness in the face of extreme provocation, but she found herself counting to ten in her head before she said something that would be repeated at family dinners for decades to come.

Arya looked lost for words for once, though her face was turning an interesting shade of cerise.

Luckily, Jon came to their rescue. Again. “When I walked here, I overheard someone in the mess tent saying they were keen to supplement their income by being their own boss and choosing how much they wanted to earn,” he said earnestly.

Aunt Lysa clapped her hands. “Oh I bet they’d love to be part of a global company that exists to benefit all members of the triangle structure, not just those at the top.”

Lysa didn’t bother to say goodbye before she hurried off.

“Thank you, Jon,” said Sansa, slumping slightly.

Arya scowled. “Fuck me, she gets crazier with age.”

“I think she’s having an affair with Petyr.” Sansa kept her voice to a whisper.

Arya made a gagging noise. “Oh gross, I did not need that image in my head.”

They chatted for a while longer, exchanging family gossip. The usual speculation about Bran’s potential status as a cult leader and debating if Robb would get married and settle down with 2.4 children. If Rickon really moonlighted as an online vigilante hacker activist, or if he claimed that just to annoy Cat. What the deal was with Uncle Edmure.

“Are we working?” asked Varys, sidling up to their little huddle of Starks and the Stark-adjacent.

“Yes, sorry Varys,” said Sansa. “Where do you want to put the first trench?”

“And would it be illegal to bury Petyr’s body in it and call it archaeology?” said Arya. Sansa suspected she was not joking.

Varys sighed. “I am legally obliged not to answer that. And Olenna and the Tyrells have already started digging at Queen Alysanne’s tower. They found a corner that wasn’t being used for Real History Uncovered Truth food preparation. Davos is sticking with them at the moment, establishing the historical origins of the site through a semi-scripted on camera chat with Olenna.”

“Where’s Sandor?” asked Sansa, keeping her voice neutral. “Is he with Jaime and Brienne? Or Oberyn?”

“Jaime and Tyrion are hiding from their sister back at the caravans. Oberyn is drawing a picture of the RHUT buses getting burned by dragon fire, I believe. Brienne and Sandor are checking out some ruined houses to see if they have potential.”

Arya scowled. “They don’t need me to scan the ground?”

Varys shook his head, a mote of tepid Northern sunlight glinting off it. There was some speculation that Varys wasn’t truly bald, that he actually had pale platinum Valyrian hair and shaved it so as not to attract negative attention in Westeros. He never had any scalp stubble though, so Sansa was unsure. “Too much interference. Gendry is scanning the tower area.”

“Fuck,” said Arya, “I’d better help before he starts flagrantly misinterpreting everything.”

Arya flung her arms around Jon, who made an “oof” noise. Jon returned the hug before Arya dashed off with Varys following at a more sedate pace.

“Do you want to come with me on a tour after I check in with Sandor and Brienne?” Samsa asked, looping her arm through Jon’s. “I think you’ll like Brienne. She’s very straight forward.”

“But not Sandor?” said Jon lightly, giving her a lopsided grin.

Sansa made a face. “You’ve been talking to Mum.”

“No, Uncle Ned. Apparently, you’ve got a crush on a heavily muscled shirtless archaeologist. Uncle Ned said Aunty Cat had been showing him some photos.”

Sansa sighed. “Our family really are terrible gossips.”

“It’s even worse up at the Wall, don’t worry.”

Brienne and Sandor were in the middle level of a ruined house, both wearing hard hats as per health and safety regulations.

Sandor was facing away from them and bending over when she and Jon approached the trench. She couldn’t repress a small “eep” sound at the view. It must have been louder than she realised because Lommy glared at her from behind the camera and held his finger up to his lips.

Jon glanced over at Sandor’s nicely sculpted bottom, then sideways at her. He wasn’t the sort of person to waggle his eyebrows suggestively, but she could tell that he wanted to. He had a small smile on his usually serious face, which told her enough.

“Looks like part of a dragon scale,” Sandor said, using his on-camera lecturing voice. He held it up for Brienne to see.

“Really?” Brienne sounded sceptical. “They don’t typically preserve very well.”

Sandor hummed. “We are in what could have been a cold storage area,” he pointed out. “Perma-frost conditions and sheltered. A villager might have taken one of Silverwing’s shed scales as a souvenir.”

This would go down a major discovery for Digging Westeros. Dragon DNA was vanishingly rare. Sandor spoke of the exciting find in the same deadpan voice he used to order his breakfast eggs. Sunny side up, slimy uncooked white over the yolk part. Sansa shuddered at the thought of partially raw eggs, and Jon shot her another sideways look.

Brienne at least seemed more enthusiastic. “We need to get this sequenced and dated.”

Lommy moved in to take some close ups of the scale whilst Brienne started making some calls.

Sansa introduced her cousin to Sandor, watching in slight bemusement as the two men firmly shook hands and Sandor was actually reasonably polite. She had the impression that Sandor was being on his best behaviour around her family, and she couldn’t repress a little flutter of excitement.

**Day 2:**

Sandor had made a new trench just inside a large dwelling on the edge of the village. It was quiet after the chaos of the RHUT and Digging Westeros crew milling around much of the ruined settlement.

Sansa was exhausted after spending yesterday dealing with drama until late at night, since it transpired late on Day One that RHUT would be allowed to stay for a further twenty-four hours then would be required to leave. Seeing Jon had at least cheered her up, but he and his colleague had had to drive back to their base after dinner. Sansa meanwhile had been busy avoiding Petyr Baelish and Aunt Lysa, soothing frazzled nerves (Varys), stroking egos (Tyrion), and giving trauma therapy (Lommy. She really needed to find him a proper therapist). She’d barely seen Davos, who’d been also working overtime trying to hold everything together.

Today had been little better, with the RHUT team providing endless hindrance to the Digging Westeros filming schedule through their series of launch events. Why would Petyr want to invite anyone named Biter to a civilised gathering? The mind boggled.

Sandor was washing some finds near his trench when she found him, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her.

She leaned on the finds table and sighed. 

“Did you hear that Cersei fucking Lannister stormed out of the RHUT opening ceremony?” enquired Sandor, rinsing his item in a bowl of murky water.

Apparently gossip spread fast, even when people were trying to hide from the chaos.

Sansa picked up a clump of dirt and a spare toothbrush from the pile and started scrubbing too. “Yes, Aunt Lysa told me when she hunted me down over breakfast and tried to convince me to have a diet shake instead of food,” she said, still indignant at the implication she needed to lose weight. She may have curves, but she was perfectly healthy. “I can’t believe they were allowed to continue this event while we’re supposed to be filming.”

“At least they’re fucking leaving today. And you don’t need a fucking diet shake, that’s ridiculous.” Sandor shook his head. “Might actually let us do some decent archaeology here.”

Sansa laughed, warmed by his response to her aunt’s idiocy. “You and Brienne found a dragon scale on day one. It doesn’t get much better than that.”

Sandor hummed and held his find up to the sunlight. It was a pot shard, possibly first century AC to Sansa’s eye. “This is television,” Sandor said, examining the shard. “Even a whole fucking dragon wouldn’t be enough.”

Sansa washed her artefact in the bowl of water. It was a floor tile, glazed blue, so high status. Far higher than would be usual for a small village in the North. Possibly evidence of trading with the South. “Have you encountered Aunt Lysa yet? Thin build, brown hair, pinched expression?”

She wiped her tile dry on a rag, then passed it to Sandor to examine.

Sandor ran his fingertip down the broken edge of the tile. “Looks mid-first century,” he said before handing it back. “Aye, she was in the mess tent when I had a coffee earlier. She had boxes of free samples she was charging five gold dragons for.”

Sansa dropped the tile in a finds box and groaned. “Of course she was. You can’t have free samples that are actually free. The world would descend into anarchy.”

Sandor’s lips quirked into a slight smile. “She said she had one of her shit products that would minimise the appearance of my fucked-up scars.”

Sansa gasped, hands over her mouth. “Oh my gods, I am so sorry.”

Sandor snorted. “I’ve had people call them far fucking worse than ‘unsightly’.” He made air quotes.

“She’s an idiot.” Sansa was torn between fury and embarrassment for her aunt’s behaviour. “I knew we should have contacted Mum to come and deal with her. Mum’s the only one Lysa will listen to.”

“You don’t get to choose your family,” Sandor said gently. He looked at the various clods and lumps on the table, frowning like he was thinking about something. He huffed a breath and spoke, “my brother was the one who fucked up my face. I was six. Caught me playing with one of his toys and held my face against the fucking coals in our fireplace.”

His words took a few moments to register with Sansa. She knew that evil existed in the world, but what Sandor described was so far beyond her experience she struggled to take it in. She felt stupid for complaining about her aunt when Sandor lived with something so terrible in his life.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered, drowning in the inadequacy of her words. There wasn’t a single word she knew that could touch on the horror of what Sandor had just confessed to her.

He was still looking at the table, unscarred cheek flushed pink in the crisp air. She leaned towards him and took his hand, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall.

He looked at her face then, startled by her touch, but didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wish that hadn’t happened to you.”

He nodded stiffly. “Aye, well.” He squeezed her hand. “It was a long time ago. My useless cunt father lied to the police about what my brother did, but they are both dead now and I’m alive, so fuck them both.”

Sansa grimaced and slid her fingers in between his. “You’ve got a good life and people who, um.” Sansa paused and cleared her throat. “Who hold you in high regard.”

Sandor squeezed her hand again and swiped her palm with his thumb before letting go and moving over to the trench. “Things have gone better than I’ve any right to expect,” he said briskly in reply.

Sansa fiddled with the artefacts on the table. She had work tasks to do, but Sandor had just told her something she suspected he rarely shared. She didn’t want to leave him.

“Can I borrow a trowel?” she asked.

He raised his one eyebrow. “Help yourself.”

Sandor had her preferred slimline Kings Landing style trowel in his toolkit, though she had noticed that he often used the Braavosi type.

She hopped down into the trench. It was at the edge of a ruined house, but she knew Sandor had asked for a structural engineer to come and perform an inspection so he could open another in the cellar of the building.

Sandor glanced at her, but said nothing as she knelt beside him and started scraping layers of soil.

They worked largely in a comfortable silence, only exchanging a few words about their task. Sandor received a text message, which he showed her. Apparently the structural engineer was busy until tomorrow because he had to drive up from Last Hearth, but someone from the RHUT crew had volunteered to take a look today and Varys had agreed.

Sansa was sceptical, but if the RHUT person seemed incompetent, they could always wait until Day Three.

Woth the cameraman appeared at one point, but obviously deemed their quiet digging to lack interest, and he wandered off again.

They’d had around an hour of peaceful digging when Sandor sat back on his heels and frowned at the clump of dirt in his hand.

“Is that a coin?” asked Sansa, squinting at it. It looked coin shaped.

“Aye,” he said, brushing the dirt off with his thumb. “It’s an Aenys I Targaryen silver dragon. We’ll have to fake finding this again when Woth comes back.”

“Aenys I Targaryen was the father of Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys, so it might have still been in circulation in their reign.” Sansa stared at it and frowned. “But it could date from Aenys I’s time rather than later.”

“This was a village in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. No peasant would have a silver dragon, and if they for some reason did, they certainly aren’t going to drop it anywhere.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “Well someone had that high-status tile in a village in the middle of nowhere,” she pointed out. “But, as far as we know Queen Alysanne’s visit was the only time any Targaryen came to this part of the North.”

Sandor turned the coin over a few more times, studying it intently. “It’s not conclusive dating evidence, but it makes her visit more likely to be in the early date range, around the year fifty-eight mark. Jaehaerys and Alysanne coinage totally dominated the circulation by the end of their reign.”

“That tile was mid-first century,” said Sansa glancing over towards the finds table.

Sandor nodded. “You know as well as I do archaeology is an inexact science though. We must wait until the dates come back on these.”

“At least it’s far more than we started with.”

They both looked up at the cheerful “Hello!”. Hot Pie came scrambling over the rubble-strewn terrain with a large basket.

A delicious smell wafted in with him and Sandor and Sansa exchanged a glance and, as one, hopped out of the trench and walked over to Hot Pie.

“You two were hard to find,” he said, his round face split in a big smile. “It’s almost like you are both hiding from the chaos and fist fight.”

Sansa sighed. “Do we want to know about the fist fight?”

“The lady trying to sell everyone those free samples is your aunty, yeah?”

Sansa groaned, something she was doing a lot of this dig. “Oh gods no, not Aunt Lysa.”

“And that mean lady from Real Housewives of Kings Landing. Jaime and Tyrion’s sister. Petyr got stuck in the middle and your aunty gave him a black eye. Then that footballer, Biter, came in and, yeah. Things got bad. The police had to take them all away.”

Sandor patted her on the back, his big hand making her take an inadvertent step forward. “You might be safe to rejoin the rest of the dig then.”

Sansa shook her head. “I’m never leaving this trench. I live here now. Sorry, if anyone needs me, I’m going to stay in these ruins until everyone is gone. And possibly forever after that.”

Hot Pie tutted sympathetically. “Have a hot pie,” he said soothingly. “You’ll feel better.”

“That’s your solution to everything,” she grumbled. Sansa eyed the pies. They looked very nice, hot and flaky on the outside, and the smell was exquisite. “Is there a venison?” she asked.

Hot Pie beamed. “The ones with the diamond on top are a traditional Northern venison recipe. Circle on top is chicken and vegetable, star top is steak and triangle is vegetarian.”

Sansa selected a venison pie and Sandor a steak. Hot Pie produced paper plates and napkins from a satchel and bid them a cheerful farewell. 

They sat on the edge of the trench to eat their pies. Sansa had a moment of being embarrassed at eating with her fingers, but Sandor had already tucked in to his pie, utterly unabashed, so she followed suit.

Sandor’s phone beeped with a message and he checked it with one hand. “Fucking RHUT engineer who claims they are competent to check the building is coming in an hour or so,” he said. “I was hoping it would be news about the dragon scale. They were going to rush the dating and DNA on it.”

Sansa swallowed her mouthful of pie. It was superb, just like she’d get from a bakery in Winterfell. “I’m sure the analysis won’t take long. If anything, it will be quicker than usual because Varys will put pressure on them, since the rest of the dig hasn’t gone to plan.” Sansa looked out over the village, trying to picture it as a busy place with a dragon soaring overhead. “It’s so sad that the dragons went extinct.”

“I’m sure the people they burned to death wouldn’t have thought so.”

Sandor’s voice caught slightly on the word ‘burned’ and Sansa wished she could have given him a hug. Or at the very least held his hand again. “Yes, that’s true,” she said instead. “But it would have been interesting to see magic in the world.”

“The glass candles in the citadel still burn, and scientists proved them to be magic,” Sandor pointed out.

Sansa licked some sauce off her fingers. “They only burn faintly. Have you seen them?”

Sandor had been watching her fingers, she noticed, but he cleared his throat and looked away before he spoke. “Aye, I’ve been to the citadel. Did some work on the black stone foundations of the Hightower. Got some sightseeing done around Oldtown when I was there.”

Sansa could not picture The Mad Dog of Archaeology Sandor Clegane doing an activity as touristy and mundane as ‘sightseeing’. “Did you take the citadel tour?” she said lightly. “I never realised the glass candles might have been communication devices. Imagine having something like that.”

Sandor snorted. “Like a fucking mobile phone? Our current technology is far cheaper and more reliable than ancient magic. And you needn’t be a fucking necromancer or shadowbinder or some shit to use it. It’s the democratisation of power and control. Nothing but a good thing.”

Sansa looked at her mobile phone, then grinned at Sandor. “Yes, that’s true.” A tiny sparrow fluttered past, followed by several others, and Sansa giggled at their antics. “I wonder if the glass candles still glow like that because of birds.”

Sandor made a sceptical noise in the back of his throat. “Birds aren’t dragons.”

Sansa watched the little birds swoop through the ruins of the house, twittering to each other. “No, but they had a common ancestor. We don’t know how the magic of dragons worked exactly. Maybe birds have some magical traits.”

Sandor finished the last bite of his pie but didn’t get up. “Have you read much of the scientific theory of magic?” he asked.

“I’ve read Samwell Tarly’s book on magical theory.” Sansa waved her pie crust around for emphasis. “How it’s connected to elements, so ice magic was connected to the building of the Wall, and fire magic connected to dragons. Earth magic to the Children of the Forest and so on.”

“I’ve read some of his stuff too.” Sandor leaned back, raising his face to the sky. “Popular science shit, mostly. He doesn’t adequately explain how magic worked with the periodic table of elements. How did hydrogen and oxygen form ice magic? Was magic itself another element that interacted with them?”

Sansa hummed in agreement. “The excavations in the ruins of Old Valyria might uncover some information on magical theory.”

“Maybe,” said Sandor doubtfully, “but flood basalt eruptions cause nothing but apocalyptic fuckery. You’d be more likely to find something in Yi Ti, or the salted lands of Old Ghis.”

“Sometimes I think Essosi history is so romantic compared to Westeros.” Sansa let out a long sigh, remembering her happy childhood filled with books from the Winterfell library. “The old magic users of Asshai, the Deep One descendants of the Thousand Islands, and the ancient Five Forts. It’s so interesting. I’d love to visit the Thousand Islands if they ever open it up to outsiders. Imagine excavating in the drowned ruins there.”

Sandor shuddered. “Not fucking likely, fish people are as xenophobic as fuck. Anyway, for someone descended from the First Men and millennia of royalty, you’re surprisingly down on your own history.”

“You shouldn’t call them fish people,” Sansa chided him. “I’ve read they prefer to acknowledge their Deep One ancestry more than, you know, the scales. Anyway, no, Westerosi history is my first love. Speaking of magic, did you know Starks are supposed to be Wargs?”

“Do you have a wolf familiar lurking nearby that I should know about?”

“Sometimes I have strange dreams about birds,” Sansa said softly. She looked over Sandor’s shoulder, where the sparrows were flittering around the perimeter of the building. She threw the last bite of pie crust to them. “It was weird, but after my childhood dog, Lady, died, occasionally I dreamed I was flying, seeing through their little eyes. It hasn’t happened so much in the past few years though. Only occasionally when I’m really tired or stressed out.”

Sandor groaned. “Fucking Northerners. You’re all fucking touched.”

Sansa smiled. “They are just dreams, they mean nothing.”

“If you see the future, let me know,” said Sandor. “Or if you see where I can find the next big archaeological discovery.”

Sansa laughed and nudged him. “If any little birds show me that,” she said as she hopped back down into the trench, “I’m taking it for myself.”

He growled in mock anger, then joined her in their dig.

**Day 3:**

The RHUT engineer had looked at Sandor’s building of choice late on Day Two, and declared it sound. Sandor had said he preferred to wait for a professional from Last Hearth, but Sansa got a message from Varys early on Day Three saying that expert was unavailable and that they were doing Sandor’s plan, anyway. Apparently digging in the deep, dark, mysterious cellar of a ruined building would make good television.

Sansa was newly unburdened by any issues but the usual Digging Westeros ones, since the RHUT people had finally left and her parents and the police were dealing with Aunt Lysa, who had been taken to Last Hearth. Sansa didn’t have time to see Sandor until late on Day Three, as she’d been stuck with the Tyrell’s who had discovered a cache of coins. Queenscrown was a far wealthier place than anyone had ever thought, and there was extensive evidence of Targaryen involvement with trade.

Mud streaked most of Sandor and he was back wearing a hard hat when Sansa clambered down into the cellar with a torch and her own protective gear. Woth was already there, filming Sandor’s efforts.

“Any dragon scales?” she said by way of greeting to Sandor.

He gave a rare laugh. “More high-status tiles, which is fu…” he glanced at the camera, “which is very unusual.”

Sandor showed her the potential layout of the cellar before Sansa sent Woth away to find Davos.

She helped dig for a while longer, keen to have some more time with Sandor, even if they were both working. The flood lights made the area almost as light as day, but it was still blessedly quiet.

Sansa was examining an interesting variation in soil layering when the building creaked alarmingly. They both looked up, startled.

“Time to fucking get out of here,” said Sandor, jumping out of the trench then holding a hand to help her out too. “I don’t like the fucking sound of that at all.”

Sansa took his hand and he pulled her out, staying close to her side rather than going off on his own.

“Even with the structural check,” she said uneasily, “it sounds too ominous for comfort.”

A second after she spoke there was an almighty crack and the sound of splintering wood. As the building collapsed around them, Sansa felt a large warm body fling itself on top of her before they were plunged into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lysa did not send that email to her big sister Cat. Some years ago, Lysa tried to shame Cat for using nappies instead of Elimination Communication with Rickon. Cat quite sensibly pointed out that having your baby consistently use the fruit and vegetable aisle of the local grocery store as a toilet isn’t perhaps ideal parenting. Lysa was unwilling take even a whiff of criticism, and ever since the sister’s relationship has been strained. Two decades later and Lysa is still banned from several local shops in the Vale, and has to order online and get her groceries delivered.


	8. Queenscrown part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely reader! I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get the next chapter out – I’m still having health issues and have to have a surgical procedure on Friday, so it’ll depend on how I go there. I shall try my best to keep writing in a timely manner!
> 
> There is a SanSan discord that lots of lovely readers and writers are in, it’s a really positive and supportive environment: https://discord.gg/KkdAp3 (This is only valid for 24 hours, so feel free to comment if you want a current invite and I shall provide!)

From Arya’s phone:

**Arya: okay Dad, don’t panic**

**Ned: Arya. Nothing good has ever come of you saying that. Ever.**

**Arya: okay well a building fell on Sansa**

**Ned: WHAT**

**Arya: obvs she’s fine. That’s why I led with ‘don’t panic’**

**Arya: Dads freaking out because a building fell on Sansa**

**Robb: …**

**Robb: is Sansa okay?**

**Arya: I AM NOT GOING TO TEXT PEOPLE IF SHE WAS DEAD. Seven Hells**

**Robb: shit, I need to go and take over from Mum and Dad and deal with Aunt Lysa don’t I?**

**Arya: yeah. Dad would text you but he’s freaking out like I said.**

**Robb: omw**

**Robb: but I am not buying any shit skincare products**

**Arya: r u there?**

**Jon: I’m on my way back to Queenscrown**

**Arya: ah. Who told you?**

**Jon: Tyrion. Tell whoever is in charge that I’m bringing survival gear**

**Arya: I have some news about Sansa**

**Bran: yes I know**

**Arya: who told you? And if you say Tyrion Lannister I won’t believe you**

**Bran: a tree**

**Arya: ffs Bran, stay off the shrooms**

**Rickon: I saw about Sansa**

**Arya: soz, I was getting to you. I’m messaging ppl in age order, u r last smol bro**

**Rickon: *shrug* news travels fast around here. I’ve diverted some of the best equipment in the North to help with the rescue**

**Arya: how the fuck? You know what, I don’t actually want to know. Plausible deniability**

***

**Day 3, continued:**

Of all the ways Sandor thought he might get Sansa Stark under him, he would not have picked ‘saving her from being crushed from falling timber’.

The only upside to having several wooden beams fall on him was that, once the building had finished trying to kill them, and she’d wiggled out from underneath him, she insisted on running her hands all over his body to make sure he really was fine.

He pointed out that he was, as far as he could tell, just bruised, and nothing was bleeding or broken. She turned on her phone torch and checked by touch as well as sight. Luckily it did fucking hurt getting clocked by a house, so he wasn’t in any danger of his cock springing to attention as she ran her hands up his thighs and torso.

She turned her phone off to save battery once she satisfied herself his imminent demise was unlikely, plunging them both into semi darkness in the small space they had left to them.

“What were you doing,” she hissed then. “You could have been killed.”

He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. The idea of her being hurt in any way was completely unacceptable. “I’m a big fucker, hard to kill,” he said. “You aren’t so large.”

She growled, which truth be told was fucking sexy, even in those circumstances. Fortunately, a muffled commotion from outside distracted her.

“Sansa? Sandor?” Davos’ voice came filtering through to their little dark oasis. “Are you in there?”

“Yes, we are in here,” Sandor replied. “You might consider shifting the building that’s in the way if you actually want to see us.”

“Hold tight,” said Davos. “Sit against a solid wall if you can.”

Sansa shone her phone light around the area, muttering all the while about battery life. The trench had a couple of beams across it but was otherwise intact. The ground surrounding it was also largely clear where they were, forming an enclosed timber and soil cave. A few tiny cracks of daylight filtered in through the dome of debris.

“The trench is probably the best place to wait for those cunts to dig us out,” he said, sliding himself over. He grunted with the pain of his bruises as he lowered himself down the trench wall and leaned against it, legs sprawled out. The ground was cold and hard under his arse.

“At least digging is something we’re all good at,” Sansa said lightly, moving to follow him. She stilled for a moment, crouching between his ankles. “We should, um, sit closely together. We will get cold quickly in these low temperatures just sitting still. Body heat is the best way to stay warm.”

There was a pause whilst he considered her words. Her breathing sounded shallow, like she was nervous.

“I’ve heard of that,” he said finally, “but I’m not getting bare arse naked. Crazy Northerners.”

She laughed at that, a sound too exquisite to be experienced in a fucked up ruin. “I think you are thinking of pressing our bodies together in a sleeping bag to help with hypothermia. I mean just sit closely, with our clothes on. Share a survival blanket if Davos finds a big enough gap in the rubble to push one through.”

Being naked in a sleeping bag with her was a deeply compelling image. He could think of a few ways to warm her up.

“Aye,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice how hoarse he sounded.

She sat between his legs, back against his front. He automatically put his arms around her, resting his hands on her stomach. She rested her arms over his and curled her cold fingers under his hands.

He could hear a commotion outside, though he was far more interested in how good her hair smelled.

“Don’t you dare fucking die, Sansa.” Arya Stark’s voice came through one gap. “I already told everyone you were okay, so don’t make me a liar.”

Sansa’s warm back jiggled as she laughed again. “I’m fine, Arya,” Sansa said, raising her voice to be heard. “How far away are the rescue crews?”

“Everyone is a couple of hours away,” Arya replied. “Jon’s bringing, oh fuck knows what survival shit, down from the Wall. The ambulance and heavy equipment are coming from Last Hearth.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Just sit still and don’t try to break out or have kinky sex.”

“Arya!” Sansa sounded both amused and scandalised.

The mention of kinky sex abruptly made Sandor acutely aware of everywhere he was touching Sansa.

“Have fun, kids,” Arya said, before evidently moving away.

“Sorry about my sister,” said Sansa sheepishly. “She has no filter, especially about sex stuff.”

“Well her lack of a filter is one step up from arguing with her over ground scan results,” he said lightly.

Sansa twisted in his arms, apparently keen to change the subject. “I’m worried I might have missed something. What if you have internal injuries? I’m not a doctor.”

Silence fell, and Sandor could virtually hear her thinking.

“Well okay yes I am,” she said sheepishly. “And so are you. But not those types of doctors.”

He hummed. “If I keel over and die, you can have my toolkit if you want. It was fucking expensive. Top quality.”

“Sandor that’s not funny.”

Sandor shrugged. “Do you want my apartment? It’s not like I have any family to give it to.”

“Sandor stop it.” She actually sounded upset, so he stopped.

“They’ll get some doctors on scene soon enough,” he said. “I’m pretty fucking sure I’m fine though.”

“Mum is a doctor. I wonder if she and Dad will come.”

“I thought your mother was a hot-shot surgeon?” he asked, to further distract her from the conversation about his untimely demise.

“Yes, she’s an orthopaedic surgeon.” Sansa shifted against him, her perfect arse rubbing against his cock. He sent it a stern mental warning to keep behaving. “But she still remembers, you know, normal doctory stuff.”

“Must have been handy raising a bunch of kids with a doctor in the house.”

“Dad did most of the hands-on parenting, but I remember Mum’s terrifyingly detailed puberty talks. So do my brothers and Arya. Years of trauma right there.” Sansa laughed at what was evidently a happy memory. “And the sex education. Gods. We were the most well-informed kids in school.”

“Talking about that shit is fucking important for kids.” He chuckled as he remembered one of the few good memories of his youth. “My old Dad threw me a box of condoms and a nudie magazine. Had to figure the rest out for myself.”

Sansa giggled too, then fell silent. “I’m glad you have that nice memory of him,” she said eventually. “That doesn’t make up for covering for your brother when he hurt you, but it’s at least not terrible.”

Sandor nodded slowly, then took a risk. “That’s the thing about shit situations. It’s not always all bad. My Dad was an alcoholic old cunt who used to hit us when he got drunk, and that was most of the time. But sometimes he would have enough money to buy me books, or he’d call me over to watch football with him and we’d talk about the game.”

“I think I understand a little what you mean,” replied Sansa. “I was with a guy, Joffrey, for two years when I was doing my undergrad degree, and by the end of our relationship he had convinced me that I was stupid, useless and ugly. He used to call me those things in front of his friends, and I feel like an idiot for not leaving him sooner, but there were nice times too. We liked the same movies, or we’d go to fun parties. That makes it so much harder to acknowledge the bad, abusive behaviour.”

“Aye that it does,” he said, shifting position a little on the frigid ground.

She waited for him to get comfortable, then squeezed his hands. “I don’t mean to compare my experience to yours though. I had a happy childhood, and no one ever hurt me. Not until I met Joffrey.”

“It’s not a competition. Everyone has their own shit in their lives. You don’t get ranked on some suffering scale.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She sounded dubious.

She snuggled against him. Even with her body heat, it was getting fucking cold.

They made idle chat as they waited, their voices sounding loud in their little ‘cave’ even with the constant hum of noise from outside, presumably as their colleagues tried to figure out how to salvage the situation and make it into good TV. Sandor tried not to shiver, from nerves or the temperature, he was unsure. Davos informed them they had to wait for Sansa’s cousin, the one who looked like a fucking illustration from a textbook of any ancient Stark King in the North, to come with survival blankets small enough to fit through the tiny gaps in the rubble. If it were up to Sandor, he would have moved some rubble from the outside, but Davos was terrified their little space would get fucked up if they did so. That was probably for the best, he’d jump on top of Sansa again in a heartbeat, but his body might object to getting crushed so soon after the last time.

The cousin arrived shortly after Oberyn finished giving them a spirited eyewitness account of yesterday’s epic battle between Reality TV Cunt and Sansa’s Mad Aunt. Allegedly there was video footage circulating, and Oberyn vowed to track it down for them to watch as a treat when they were rescued.

“Are you okay, Sansa?” Sandor recognised the cousin’s voice coming through the rubble.

“I think we’re okay,” she replied, turning her face towards the direction of the voice. “Though Sandor got hit with some wooden beams.”

“I’ve got survival blankets and survival chocolate,” said the cousin, Jon. “The, uh, the chocolate stops you needing to use the bathroom. I’ll put them through, then I need to go and help coordinate the rescue.”

Sandor watched as a thin silvery square and two small wrapped packages were pushed through a sliver of space and fell to one side of the trench.

Sansa crawled over and retrieved the items before coming back and settling against him.

She opened the blankets and draped the material over both over them. She unwrapped the chocolate, sniffed it cautiously, then nibbled on the edge. “It’s sort of chalky,” she said. “Quite disgusting.”

Sandor reached over her shoulder to purloin the other bar. He felt a touch queasy but helped himself to a large bite of chocolate any way. “Would you rather have to take a shit in front of me if we’re stuck in here overnight or through tomorrow?” he asked.

She gasped, then ate a sizeable chunk of the chocolate. And another. Then a third.

“Turn your phone back on,” shouted Arya suddenly, interrupting their consumption of the anti-shitting candy. “Mum’s having kittens. You’d better reassure her.”

The plastic and foil blanket rustled as Sansa retrieved her phone and switched it on.

Sandor shamelessly read over Sansa’s shoulder.

**Cat: SANSA MY DARLING ARE YOU OKAY??!?!?!??? DAD AND I ARE COMING.**

**Sansa: I’m fine, Mum. I can’t send many messages, I’m trying to conserve battery on my phone, but I’m here with Sandor. We just have to wait on the machinery to free us.**

**Cat: IS HE WEARING A SHIRT?**

**Sansa: what? Mum. it’s freezing, of course he’s dressed. I’m worried tho, some beams fell on him. He says he’s fine but what if he’s not?**

“I’m fucking fine,” said Sandor indignantly.

“Stop reading over my shoulder. I don’t read over your shoulder.”

“You can’t see over my shoulder.”

Sansa gave an indignant snort as another message came through.

**Cat: hmm. Check under his shirt.**

“What is it with you Stark women and me being shirtless?” he said, the first time he’d directly referred to Sansa’s confession in Hardholme that she wanted to lube his torso up with oil.

She stiffened, then groaned and hunched forward over the phone before replying.

**Sansa: okay Mum, this shirtless interest in my colleague is getting a little weird**

**Cat: I NEVER JOKE ABOUT MEDICINE, SANSA. Check for any large bruises, contusions, and if he feels clammy. Take his pulse for 15 seconds, then multiply that by 4 and tell me what it is.**

She leaned back against him and sighed. “I need to check you over again.”

Sandor had a very brief but entertaining fantasy of her stripping him naked and examining him closely. Possibly ending up with his cock in her sweet mouth. “Is your mum okay?” he said instead of scrutinizing this thought any more.

“Well a house didn’t fall on her, though she did have to deal with Aunt Lysa before all this happened.”

Sansa wiggled around until she was on her knees between his legs, wearing the survival blankets like a cape.

She shone her phone torch at him, and he blinked, blinded.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry. “Could you, ah, pull your shirt and sweater up and move so I can see your back. Please.”

This was fucking pointless, but he couldn’t summon the energy to argue. Instead he obligingly sat up, shifted sideways and tugged his clothing up to reveal his body to her once more, bathed in the relentlessly unsexy glare of the mobile phone light.

She touched him more purposefully that she had earlier, fingers trailing over him as she squinted at his body.

His cock twitched feebly, but stayed down like it had for her initial examination. The situation must have shocked his body. He couldn’t imagine any other way he’d avoid getting a cock stand whilst Sansa Stark was running her hands over his skin.

“You do feel cold and damp,” she said thoughtfully, “but it’s cold in here, so I don’t know. Those bruises on your back look bad though, they weren’t like that when I first checked you.”

He grunted noncommittally when she looked at him for a response.

A small frown settled between her beautiful eyes. “You can pull your tops down, I have to check your heart rate.”

He carelessly pulled his clothing back into a vague semblance of order, and positioned himself against the wall of the trench again.

She put delicate fingertips on his wrist and watched a timer on her phone before tapping something out on her phone screen.

“Sixty-eight per minute,” she said, frowning again. “That seems low, but I don’t know. You are quite fit and that brings your heart rate down. Do you know what it is normally?”

He habitually kept track of his heart rate when going for a run, but his brain was fuzzy as fuck and he couldn’t remember the exact number, only that under seventy seemed low. “No,” he said, so she’d stop asking questions.

She gave a discontented hum and positioned herself sitting against him again, pulling the blankets back over them both.

**Sansa: his heart rate is 68, and his skin feels a bit weird. The bruises on his back are big and dark.**

**Cat: your father and I are not too far away, though the paramedics will be well in front of us. Keep him still.**

“You need to stay put,” Sansa said over her shoulder to him.

He snorted. “Well there goes my idea to lift some weights here in our fucking tomb.”

“Yes yes, very funny.”

They sat quietly, listening to the sounds from outside.

“I’d fucking pay to see that footage of the fist fight,” Sandor said eventually. “I hope Martell comes through.”

“He will,” Sansa replied confidently. “Remember last week when he somehow obtained that surveillance video of Daenerys Targaryen setting her geese free in a supermarket near Dragonstone?”

Sandor remembered. He had never seen a shop reduced to a fucked-up mess quite so quickly, with that weird Targaryen woman ranting about fire and blood whilst the geese hissed and flapped with wild abandon amongst the broccoli.

“If he ever wants to give up art,” he said, “Oberyn’s got a fucking excellent career as a private investigator lined up.”

Sansa hummed thoughtfully. “What did you want to be when you were a child?”

He wanted to fucking die for a good part of his childhood, because of his pain and disfigurement. This was not the time to discuss that, though he knew Sansa would be kind about it. She always tried to say the right words, the nice reaction. But even for someone like her, there wasn’t any gentle response that would suit a sad child’s hideous scars.

“A nurse,” he replied, which was actually true. “The nurses were friendly to me when I was in the hospital. I don’t remember my Mum, but I remember thinking she’d have been kind and gentle like the nurses. I wanted to be like them too, not drunk or violent like at home.”

“Oh Sandor,” Sansa whispered, her voice sounding wobbly.

“What about you?” he asked hurriedly, before she could cry. Tears he could handle, but this situation was bad enough without making her feel sad for him.

She sniffled but answered him, “When I was really little, I wanted to be a princess, because I loved princess stories. Once I could read though, I discovered all the history books in the Winterfell library and since then I wanted to be an Archaeologist.”

“That’s how I got into it too. Dad bought me a second-hand copy of Maester Aemon’s Complete History of Westeros after he won big on the horses once. Fuck, I loved that book, read it until it fell apart, and then taped it up and kept reading. I still have it, though it’s too fragile to read now.”

Sansa interlaced her fingers with his under the blanket. “I’m glad you ended up here.” She paused and glanced up towards the ‘roof’ of their area. “Well maybe not specifically here, but you know. Here in general.”

All the choices he had made in his life had led to meeting her. He was pretty fucking lucky, actually. “Aye,” he muttered into her soft hair.

Quiet fell upon them again and Sandor shut his eyes and he fell into a light doze. He roused enough to notice when Sansa spoke to various people who checked on them, but ignored everything except Sansa’s even breathing.

He came more alert when Sansa wiggled in his arms to sit side on. She tapped his shoulder.

“Sandor?”

He yawned. It amazed him that he got any rest with the fucking pain from his bruises. “What?”

“The paramedics and my parents arrived, and so has the heavy machinery. Mum’s been bossing all the medical people around, she said, and you really need to stay awake.”

He grunted in response.

She tapped his shoulder again, this time more of a jab. “That guy I told you I dated? The woman from that reality show who fought with Aunt Lysa is his mum. I didn’t have much to do with his family, and yesterday I was more focused on avoiding Aunt Lysa but that would have been super awkward if I’d have run into Cersei.”

He roused himself enough to say, “She must be a cunt if she raised a son who would treat you like that.”

“Well like I said I didn’t know her very well. But…” she drummed her fingers on her knee as if she was considering something, and the blanket covering them rustled, “…from what I know of her she isn’t the nicest person, no.”

“I’ve worked for the Lannister’s before. Old Tywin got me to do some excavations with Jaime on potential building sites. Luckily, I’ve avoided Cersei.”

She kept him awake with more chatter as the activity around their ruin increased audibly.

As dusk fell and the harsh light from flood lights outside cracked into their haven, Sandor felt his phone vibrate with a message. He, like Sansa, had been trying to avoid using it, though it was on a far higher battery percentage than hers.

**Oberyn: [img2896]**

**Oberyn: I consider this may provide you with some cheer, my friend. I’m still working on the fight file but will show you that when you resurface.**

“What is it?” Sansa murmured.

He showed her the picture. It was a phone photo of Oberyn’s sketch of dragon fire destroying the RHUT caravans. He’d captured the glimmer of Silverwing’s distinctive scales even in the flat medium of pencil, and Queen Alysanne was seated on the dragon, giving the caravans the middle finger. The sketch featured Baelish as fleeing the carnage, shirtless, but holding wads of cash in each hand. The words ‘Insert Name Here’ tattooed prominently on his chest. Martell has also drawn Reality TV Cunt and Sansa’s Mad Aunt as ancient warriors attempting to smash each other in battle, the Lannister woman with a mace and the aunt with a large pyramid-shaped bottle with the words ‘Consume Me’ inscribed on it in careful calligraphy.

“Wow,” said Sansa in awed tones. “That might be his best work yet. He’s perfectly captured Aunt Lysa’s scowl. And look, the dragon is smiling as it breathes fire.”

“Shame he can’t show it on the footage that’ll air,” Sandor said. “You should send your aunt a copy. That’s a really fucking good likeness of her.”

Sansa giggled. “Thank the old gods that Aunt Lysa isn’t here for us getting trapped. She’d have been awful with a literal captive audience.”

“Seven Hells. I’d have bought the fucking scar cream just to shut her up,” he said against the side of Sansa’s head. Fuck, she still smelled good.

He shifted a little. It was getting bloody cold. He tightened his grip on Sansa, feeling her warmth. He wanted to kiss her, or hug her more or… something, but his head was fuzzy. Her warmth was enough for now.

“What was your high school like?” she asked, breaking through his mental haze.

He gathered his thoughts. “I went to Lannisport High,” he said. “Could have been fucking worse for a state school full of poor kids. I was a big fucker even then, so I didn’t get too much shit. I mostly hung out in the library and read as much as possible.”

Sansa ran her thumb gently over the backs of his fingers. “I like the thought of you roaming around the library, stopping only to cram in as much information as you could.”

“Where’d you go?” he asked.

“Rickard Stark Memorial High,” she said lightly. “Dad needed us to go to a state school for his political career. To prove that free education was just as good as a private school. I liked it once I got over the awkwardness of having it named after one of my ancestors. I was such a nerd, involved in all the clubs and the school council.”

“That surprises me. I’d have thought your parents would have sent you to a fancy private Sept school with the other rich kids. Makes sense though if your father was trying to score political points.”

“State schools in the North are very good,” she said, sounding a touch offended, “and I made lots of lovely friends from all sorts of backgrounds. My marks were still high enough for a full scholarship to university because I worked hard, regardless of my family or where I went to school.”

He squeezed her hands as an apology as her back felt rigid. “Aye, I did the same. And at least you avoided becoming a repressed Septry school girl.”

She relaxed. “Did you know there aren’t any Sept schools north of the Neck? Most people keep the Old Gods if they are religious at all.”

He hadn’t realised that. “What, so you don’t celebrate Sevenmas?”

“And give up the chance for presents?” She chuckled and as always it was a fucking beautiful sound in their tomb. “Oh no, we definitely celebrate Sevenmas.”

“What do you have for decorations then? Statues of the Seven like we have in the South?”

Even his family had had the traditional set of seven decorative statues, left over from when his mother had been alive. They had been pretty fucking battered, and the Warrior had been missing an arm, but they’d been something festive at least. His family had always exchanged presents too. Just cheap dollar store shit, usually, and not between him and Gregor, because fuck his cunt brother, but with his dad.

Sansa snuggled against him. “No, it’s mostly tree based. In friend’s houses in the South I’ve seen the little statues of the Smith and the Father flanking a fireplace, or the Mother and the Crone in the kitchen, though by the way that is incredibly sexist.” She stirred as she looked up at his face and he hummed his agreement with her statement before she continued. “But instead of those we would have fake mini Heart trees, or real branches of other trees painted red and white to look like Heart trees. You can buy fake Heart tree faces on their own, but those are tacky.”

“I’ve excavated at the Isle of Faces. I’d describe Heart tree faces as bloody terrifying, not tacky.”

“They are tacky when rendered in plastic, obviously from a mould. Seems blasphemous, though.”

He considered this. “Aye okay.”

“We also have a real Heart tree at Winterfell, in our godswood. You’d be welcome to come and see it any time.”

Before he could respond to that compelling invitation, there were some shouts from the outside and the beams creaked alarmingly. Some dust came down and coated them. Sansa gasped in fright. He didn’t fucking blame her.

“What the fuck are you doing out there?” he bellowed.

“Sorry,” came Davos’s faint voice. “Lommy tripped over some rubble while he was trying to set up to film your dramatic rescue. He’s fine, by the way.”

“I don’t give a shit if he’s fine, I care if Sansa is fine and you can all fuck right off until the rescue equipment is ready.” He realised what he’d said too late, but he didn’t fucking care. It was the truth.

“Sandor,” breathed Sansa. She twisted so she was on her knees in front of him again. She ran her fingertips down his arm until she found his hand and slid her fingers between his.

The gesture reminded him of how she took his hand yesterday after he’d told her about the origin of his hideous face. He never told people that story, but her response had made him feel less of a freak. She was always doing the right fucking thing.

She cupped his face with her free hand. On the scarred side.

“Sandor,” she repeated, her voice husky, and leaned forward to brush her lips over his.

He responded in kind, his head swimming with her nearness. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his vision, already dim in the meagre light, blurring at the edges.

She deepened the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth with a tiny moan at the back of her throat. She tasted vaguely of survival chocolate, which was, against all odds, sexy as fuck.

His free hand was fucking trembling, but he managed to raise it to stroke along the shell of her ear and then down her neck.

She must have liked that because she straddled him without breaking the kiss. If his cock hadn’t currently been comatose, he’d have been as hard as stone with the way she pressed her lush body against him.

“Hold tight, they’re about to start shifting the debris.” Davos’ voice came through the rubble like a deeply unwelcome visitor.

Sansa pulled back and rested her forehead against his. “We should probably stop there then.”

“Don’t want to stop kissing you, you are perfect as fuck,” he said, his voice sounding slurred for some reason. He was so fucking sleepy.

“Sandor?” Sansa said, sounding alarmed.

“I’m fucking fine,” he replied, though he kept his eyes shut. It was dark. He didn’t need to see, anyway.

Her hand stroked his face, her calloused fingertips drifting over his skin. “He’s gone really clammy and cold,” she said loudly. “Oh shit.”

“Stop chirping and fussing, my little bird. I just need a little fucking sleep.”

“Oh, Sandor, no,” she whispered, cupping his face in her hands. “Please stay awake.”

She was touching both sides of his face and he wanted to tell her she needn’t keep touching his repulsive scars, but it was too hard to find the words.

The noise of timber being shifted was loud, but not as loud as his own breathing sounded in his ears.

He surrendered to the sweet urge to sleep.

**The day after Day 3:**

“Illuminating the interior of the cave in the photographs used in the study proved difficult.” A lovely voice penetrated his fuzzy senses. “Successful navigation through the dark zone of a cave requires an exterior source of light. The earliest First Men navigated through these spaces with wooden torches made from pine. Light produced by flames…”

He thought briefly that he was dead, and the Maiden was reading a journal article about cave archaeology to him, until he remembered that he was an atheist. His lungs seemed to be working, which would also indicate he was alive.

He was lying down on a bed, slightly propped to one side, he realised, surrounded by the odour of antiseptic. The voice was coming from beside the bed.

“In keeping with this study’s phenomenological framework,” the voice continued, “every attempt was made to photograph the cave environment in the same way the ancient First Men would have encountered it.”

He cracked an eye open. Sansa was here, reading aloud from her phone.

“Are you briefing me on our next dig?” he rasped.

She lowered her phone and smiled at him. “I found an interesting article on ancient lighting in caves and how that would affect cave archaeology. I thought you might find it interesting too.” She lowered the phone and leaned forward. “How do you feel?”

“Like a building fell on me,” he said dryly. “But why am I here? I was fine.”

“You had a lacerated kidney and were bleeding internally. We’re in Last Hearth, you had to have an operation on it late last night.”

Sandor considered this. “Will I be well enough for the dig at Crow’s Nest?”

Sansa huffed a laugh. “Both Mum and your surgeon said you’d probably need a few weeks off.”

Sandor shook his head. “No, I’ll be at the dig. At the very least I can sit with Olenna and drink cocktails. Fuck going home alone. I want to stay with the team.”

Sansa laughed quietly and shook her head, but then her mood turned serious. She shuffled closer and took his nearest hand. “Sandor, I just wanted to say…” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m sorry for kissing you like that. You were sick, and I just jumped on you like a crazy person.”

He frowned at her. She was clearly misremembering if she thought that was in any way unwelcome. He still had enough strength to pull her forward even more, so she was leaning on the bed, though not close enough. “Fucks sake, girl. Come and kiss me again and see how unwelcome it is.”

Her cheeks got even pinker, if that was possible. “Sandor, I…”

He raised his eyebrow and stared pointedly at her mouth. So fucking kissable.

She huffed a breath and leaned over him so they were nose to nose, before moving to kiss him properly.

He had tubes and medical shit sticking out of his hand, but he put it on her waist anyway, returning her kiss with as much enthusiasm as he was able.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I modified an excerpt from this work for Sansa’s journal article: Bourgeois, N. (2017) The visual saliency of cave formations and its implication for cave archaeology. University of California, Merced.
> 
> Note: Cat doesn’t have a thing for Shirtless Sandor specifically, it’s more like an appreciation for the male form that she shares with her other thirsty middle-aged lady friends. Ned’s not jealous, she keeps him busy enough in bed that he’s fine with pretty much anything she’s into.


	9. Interlude: Last Hearth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much of a delay with this chapter, fortunately. Thanks everyone for your lovely messages!

**First and second days after a building fell on Sandor:**

Sandor succeeded in sharing three more clandestine kisses with Sansa after the one she gave him post-surgery. He promised to leave hospital in time for at least the final two days of filming of their next dig. This was against of the opinions of his doctors, a father/son duo comparable in robust size to himself, known as Dr ‘Greatjon’ Umber and Dr ‘Smalljon’ Umber.

Sandor even swore he’d participate in the fucking historical enrichment activity without any fuss, though occasionally he considered that having a building fall on him was a fair trade for getting out of doing one at the Queenscrown dig. Sansa promised whatever horror she had planned for him at Crow’s Nest, Sandor would be able to sit down for.

He had the dubious pleasure of a variety of visitors over the couple of days before the crew left, which he hadn’t expected at all. He wanted them to piss off because the constant company was the main reason he was hardly able to kiss Sansa.

Oberyn showed them the video of Reality TV Cunt and Sansa’s Mad Aunt during his visit. It turned out both women sported the same haircut, though it took Sansa to point that out because it was just hair and fucked if he noticed details like that. Once he looked closely, he could tell the cut was long at the front and kind of slicked down, but shorter and… puffy?… at the back. Someone had slowed the footage down and set it to a grandiose soundtrack. He recognised the music as the late Conquest-era operatic piece that lamented the vagaries of the Seven, ‘O Fortuna.’ Sansa laughed so hard she cried, which made him smile until he caught Oberyn watching them both and smirking. The Dornish cunt.

He was fortunate enough to receive one of the Sansa kisses after that visit. That kiss was particularly memorable because he rested his hand on her ribs, perilously close to a delectable tit. All too soon she pulled back and whispered that she wanted to take things slowly and not rush into anything more intense than kissing. Yet. That was fine as fuck with him, he’d never tire of kissing her.

Davos came to visit next, bearing an extra-large bag of grapes, joined by his husband who had turned up as part of the Digging Westeros legal team to sort out the ‘workplace accident’ situation. Stannis Baratheon was so uptight that Sandor had trouble imagining what the more relaxed Davos saw in him. It turned out that Reality TV Cunt was Stannis’s former sister-in-law, which of fucking course she was. All these big famous families intermarried like inbred Skagosi tribes, except richer and usually less hairy. Oberyn had given Sandor a copy of the fight video, so he showed Stannis, and he swore the rigid cunt almost cracked a smile. Though that might have been wind. Davos certainly enjoyed it, laughing and slapping his knee with mirth.

Hot Pie and Varys came together, holding hands. He needed to check with Sansa’s tiny bitch sister if his prediction on the Hot Pie/Varys relationship sweepstake had come true. That pairing still seemed as unlikely as fuck, but then the hottest woman in Westeros inexplicably appeared to enjoy kissing his ugly mug, so who was he to judge. Hot Pie had made him an enormous basket full of fresh shortbread biscuits, the traditional Westerlands kind that he loved. They were bloody delicious. Hot Pie could fuck the High Septon, for all Sandor cared, so long as he kept making top quality baked goods.

Jaime and Brienne came together, the day after the previous crew members, and spent the entire time sitting closely beside each other and bickering about the dating results on the dragonscale from Queenscrown. Sandor wasn’t sure if they even realised he was there. He half expected them to start dry-humping right there in his hospital room, which he would not have been best pleased by.

He got another Sansa kiss after that visit and kept his hands respectfully on her waist. She had been flitting in and out of his room, distracting her family who were apparently lurking nearby like wolves circling their kill, and trying to work on preparation for the next dig. Seeing her so much was just as good as kissing her. Well, almost.

The Imp bought him a three-volume set of _Six Times to Sea: Being an Account of the Great Voyages of Alyn Oakenfist_ to read. It comprised the book itself in the archaic common tongue, an annotated version in the modern common tongue and a collection of essays on topics relevant to the literature. Pod trailed behind Tyrion, carrying all the books. It was a fucking generous gift and Sandor said so. The Imp dismissed him with a wave of his hand and said Sandor was one of the few people he knew who would appreciate it, and he looked forward to discussing the books together. Tyrion also gave him a hefty swig of twenty-five-year-old single malt whiskey from his hip flask, against medical advice, so Sandor shared his shortbread and grapes with both men.

The Tyrells arrived en masse, a generically beautiful phalanx around their ancient grandmother. They thanked him for saving Sansa, whom they were all apparently quite fond of. Margaery even hugged him, carefully aiming for his unscarred side. Olenna didn’t attempt a hug, but she was less belligerent than usual. No hugs from the Tyrell men either, thank fuck, though Loras looked like he needed one. Loras usually looked like he needed a hug though.

Shortly before their final kiss before she and the crew had to leave for the next dig, Sansa mentioned that her parents were desperate to thank him for saving her and that it would be easier to just see them now that he was feeling so much better. Then she leaned over him and stuck her tongue in his mouth, effectively silencing any protests on his part. So not only did the kisses and the visitors stop, but he had to lie there awaiting his potential doom.

**Third day after a building fell on Sandor:**

Sansa’s mother turned up as he was settling back into bed after a slightly wobbly trip to the bathroom to take care of business. That cunt of a catheter had been the first thing that went after he woke up and he had no fucking intention of using a bed pan so bathroom it was.

If he was going to have a guilty masturbatory fantasy about a sexy middle-aged Sansa, she would look like Catelyn Stark. The mother/daughter resemblance was uncanny and unsettling, since one woman he very much wanted to fuck, and the other he did not. The elder Stark woman had obtained a tailored lab coat and sported a large name tag that read ‘Dr Cat: visiting surgeon 😊😸’. He wondered who she’d had to browbeat to get a temporary place on staff quite so quickly. Wasn’t she supposed to be a hot shot surgeon back in Winterfell, and didn’t she have patients who needed her, instead of staying here to stalk him?

He wasn’t a fucking idiot and therefore did not voice these questions.

Instead he stuck to introducing himself properly and even thanked Dr Stark for the text message medical advice, because he was capable of being polite, he just didn’t usually give a shit.

She acknowledged his thanks, asked him to call her by her first name, and sat in one of the guest chairs. After she openly stole a handful of his hospital grapes that Davos had bought him. He narrowed his eyes at her. He fucking loved grapes. Luckily, he’d already hidden the rest of his stash of shortbread.

Cat popped a grape into her mouth, regarding him as she chewed and swallowed. “What are your intentions towards my elder daughter?” she asked finally.

Sandor blinked at her. Had their kisses been noticed? They had tried to be as discreet as possible. His voice seemed to have deserted him.

“I am many things, Sandor,” Cat continued, “but stupid is not one of them. I was there when you were pulled from the rubble and Sansa refused to leave your side until you were in theatre. There are obviously feelings there, at least on her part.”

He hadn’t realised that Sansa had stuck with him for as long as she could that day. Though that did make sense, given the passion of her kisses. “My intentions,” he said hoarsely.

He still struggled to believe Sansa had any romantic interest in him, even with evidence mounting up. Desiring any future with her seemed presumptuous as fuck. She deserved better. She deserved the world.

His visitor ate another grape and looked at him expectantly.

He went with honesty. “Whatever she wants from me, she can have.”

“That dreadful Baratheon-Lannister boy hurt my daughter badly.” Cat examined her nails on the hand that wasn’t holding her ill gotten grapes. “Very badly indeed. She’s not been in a serious relationship since.”

Sandor’s head reeled at the sudden change of topic. “Aye, she’s mentioned something about that,” he managed. “He’s a cunt.”

“Quite.” She leaned forward and regarded him. She was close enough that he could see that her eyes were the same shade of vivid blue that Sansa’s were. “Joffrey had political ambitions, did Sansa mention that?”

Sandor shook his head no. “She just told me about how he treated her.”

Cat bit off half a grape, chewed and swallowed, then ate the rest before she resumed talking. “Well. He had political ambitions, bankrolled by his powerful family. Do you know what he does now?”

Was this a fucking trick question? “No.”

“Nothing. Every time he tries to run for an office, however minor, certain incriminating documents are widely released online by interested parties. My sources tell me he now spends his days living with his mother, attempting to romance players he believes are female in online games.”

Sandor helped himself to his own fucking grapes, taking one to give himself time to respond. He carefully moved his hand, mindful of the giant needle and tubes still sticking out the back of it. “Seven hells. Your family doesn’t do things by halves.”

There was a brief but considered silence.

“Sometimes relationships don’t work out,” said Cat after a few moments of mutual wordless fruit consumption. “Often they end, and that of course is fine as long as both parties treat each other with respect and dignity. But the kind of vicious, abusive treatment that my daughter endured at the hands of that little shit, that is unacceptable. Do I make myself clear?”

Despite himself, he laughed. “Does Sansa know her family has a vengeance campaign against the cunt who screwed her over?”

Cat made a gesture of dismissal with her free hand. “Sansa is focused on her career, to the detriment of her personal life.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Though her focus is to her credit. She’s a talented Archaeologist. I’ve read all her published works and they were bloody impressive. Excellent attention to detail.”

Cat pursed her lips. “I’m glad you appreciate how special she is. Though naturally there is more to her than her job.”

“She’s the nicest fucking person I’ve ever met.”

“Sansa is very precious to us.” Cat eyed the bag of grapes, but refrained from taking more.

“Whatever happens, and I have no clue at this stage,” Sandor said, “I would rather cut off my own fucking hand than cause her pain.”

Sansa’s mother hummed. “I’m pleased that we are on the same page. The North remembers those who hurt their own.”

Sandor shifted on his bed, trying not to wince from the movement. He had declined any more pain relief because the medication made his head too foggy, but his back hurt like a bitch.

Cat clucked her tongue. He had probably not been as successful as he hoped at not reacting to the pain. That, or she’d evolved some weird doctor sixth sense about medical shit.

She stood up and checked his chart. “No pain killers at all?” she said, raising both eyebrows, “just IV antibiotics and extra fluids.”

He shrugged in reply.

She sat down again and crossed her arms, giving him a searching look. “It takes a special Southerner to adapt to Northern culture. I did, though it took some years. You certainly have the look of a First Man, the attitude of a First Man.”

If he was not mistaken, that was a compliment. He wasn’t sure how to take it. “I’m sure they weren’t all fucked up,” he said as he gestured to his face.

“You’ll find scars are regarded differently in the North than the more image conscious South. I’ve had patients refuse to get cosmetic surgery on extensive scarring because Northerners consider them a badge of honour.”

There was no fucking honour at all in how he got his scars, though he didn’t say that.

A small voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sansa pointed out that there was honour in surviving, honour in living his best life.

“Crazy fuckers,” he said to both Cat, and Sansa’s imaginary voice.

“Indeed.” The beeping of a pager sounded, and she checked the pocket of her perfectly fitted lab coat, pulling out the ancient device. “Well, I must go,” she said after reading the screen. “Duty calls.”

“Aye,” he said.

“Please remember what I said,” Cat said over her shoulder as she glided out of the room.

He resisted the urge to salute or some shit. “Message received loud and clear,” he rasped.

Alone again, Sandor closed his eyes. What the fuck was that?

He got the impression he was possibly deemed to be acceptable for Sansa, in the eyes of her mother at least. She hadn’t told him to leave her precious child alone, which counted as a win. After she threatened him.

It was less than five minutes before a firm knock sounded at his door and the man who was clearly his previous visitor’s husband walked in.

Sansa’s father looked like a middle-aged version of the cousin, with a long, dour face, and dark brown hair. Same grey eyes too, Sandor noticed when Stark got close to shake Sandor’s hand and introduce himself. There was also a strong familial resemblance to Arya. Did these people just come in two versions? What did that say about their gene pool? Their weird fucking tree gods tossed a coin and all these Starks got given either ‘ginger and hot’ or ‘dark and somber’.

Sandor had seen Eddard ‘Call Me Ned’ Stark on TV before, even before Sansa mentioned he was a politician. Politician or not, the fucker also nicked some of his grapes.

Stark, sorry, _Ned_ made himself comfortable in the seat his bloody wife had vacated. He ate a grape with the same smug expression she’d adopted over her ill-gotten fruit too. They must be one of those couples who became increasingly alike as the years ticked along. “My wife didn’t threaten to geld you, did she?” Ned said after swallowing the first grape.

Sandor resisted the impulse to check to make sure his cock was still there. “No,” he replied. “No mention of gelding.”

Only to ruin him if he behaved badly.

“Good, good. We almost lost Gendry when she threatened him with that. Luckily, he’s made of sterner stuff. He’d need to be to handle Arya.” Ned ate another grape then continued archly, “Sansa isn’t so strong and spirited as that.”

Sandor frowned at this obvious mischaracterisation. “With all due respect, you are wrong. Sansa is a strong and capable woman. Clever as fuck, too.” Has this cunt even met his own daughter before?

Ned nodded and smirked.

Was that another fucking test?

There was a knock on the door. Sandor didn’t entirely manage to suppress his groan. Who the fuck else would be visiting him?

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” said the newcomer. A young man carrying a laptop bag entered his room. Another obvious Stark, of the ‘ginger and hot’ variety.

“This is my youngest son, Rickon. Rickon this is Sandor Clegane.”

“Hey man,” Rickon said, shaking Sandor’s hand before spying the contents of the bedside table. “Oh, hospital grapes. I love the green seedless kind. Mind if I…?”

Sandor sighed but waved at the grapes, keeping his expression neutral. “Aye, help yourself.” Sansa loved her family and they evidently loved her back. The least he could do was not get too shitty that they all also apparently loved grapes.

Rickon settled himself beside his father, balanced his grapes on the armrest, opened his laptop and started typing.

Ned regarded Sandor. “Where do you see yourself in the future? Do you want a family?”

“What the fuck?”

Sandor hadn’t realised he’d said the words out loud until Ned frowned.

“It’s a simple question,” he said calmly. “You’re, what, a decade older than Sansa? I’d like to see what your priorities are.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to have a family, regardless of what I might want,” Sandor replied baldly. “Too fucking ugly and now I’m almost forty.”

Potentially having a wife and kids always seemed as fucking unlikely as seeing a unicorn. Something for normal people with entire faces. All he could do was carve out a good life anyway, not even considering what he might also like.

And he had, he’d made a successful life for himself.

The jape was on him though, he had very recently seen a unicorn.

“I see,” said Ned thoughtfully.

“You own a sweet apartment in Lannisport,” said Rickon absently, his eyes focused on the screen. “A two-bedroom penthouse. Nice view of the harbour. And you own it freehold.”

Sandor tried to sit up suddenly. He had to stop and grunt in pain as the stitches in his back pulled. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Ned leaned forward to place a restraining hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, son. We’re simply running some basic checks.”

“You’re all fucking mad.” He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m an Archaeologist for fucks sake.”

“No evidence of online gambling,” murmured Rickon, a touch indistinctly through a mouthful of grape, “but Sandor recently cancelled his subscription to plussizetitties.com.”

Sandor huffed. “I was fucking single.”

“Fair play. Does the ‘was’ imply you are no longer single?” Ned looked contemplative.

Ned had him there. Sandor hummed, then admitted, “If I am the luckiest man in the whole fucking world, yes. But your daughter might also come to her senses.”

“Your doctoral thesis on Dawn Age drinking vessels was well received. You’ve published a variety of articles on,” Rickon paused, made a face as he read something on the screen and then shrugged, “random Archaeology stuff. You had a full academic scholarship to the University of Lannisport and maintained straight A grades. You donate regularly to your local animal shelter.” He squinted at the screen again and whistled. “Regularly and very generously.”

Ned gave an approving nod.

Sandor shrugged. “I told you, I’m boring. All I do is work. And only total cunts don’t support abused animals.”

“There are far worse traits for a person than working hard. Far worse.”

“There is a sixty-page thread on the Westeros History Quarterly forums with users asking for another shirtless photo shoot with Dr Clegane.” Rickon raised his eyebrows. “You also have quite a following amongst the bear community. Have you seen any of this fan art?”

What the fuck was the bear community?

Sandor growled. “Right that’s enough, you’ve made your point.”

Ned and Rickon exchanged a look, and the younger man shut the laptop.

“Do you also need my blood type and passport number? My fucking zoological sign?”

“You were born under the sign of the Canine,” Rickon said immediately. “Quick to anger but loyal to those you care for.”

Sandor gave a derisive snort and grabbed a bunch of his grapes. There were hardly any left.

“My son Bran emailed me to say that your aura was that of a gentle, but strong man, Sandor,” said Ned, “with pain in his past but a loyal heart.”

Rickon rolled his eyes. “To be fair Dad, Bran also thinks you were Hand of the King in a past life. Down in the South.”

Ned snorted. “True.” He shook his head. “Imagine leaving the North.”

Sandor stared at them both. Fucking mad, these Northerners.

Regardless, had he passed whatever fucked up test this was?

“I want to thank you for saving Sansa in the building collapse, that was an act of great bravery,” said Ned, leaning forward for emphasis. “Of course, Sansa is entirely capable of making her own decisions about her own future and we all respect that. But, for what it’s worth, we will not provide any…” He paused and looked thoughtful.

“Hinderance,” Rickon supplied.

“Hinderance in your way regarding our precious Sansa. Perhaps, if things progress well, you might consider joining the Stark family for our Sevenmas celebrations at the end of the year.”

Rickon’s eyes went wide at the last proclamation. “Wow it took Gendry three years to get one of those invites.”

Ned nodded again. “Aye,” he said.

Sandor was unexpectedly touched. He cleared his throat. What the fuck did you say in this situation?

There was a lengthy pause.

“Sansa is the best person I’ve ever met,” Sandor said eventually, echoing what he’d told Cat. “I fucking swear she’s safe with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned organised a fruit basket, with extra grapes, to be delivered to Sandor’s room right after he and Rickon finished their visit.
> 
> In the future, Sansa would be intrigued to discover some of the Sandor-related fan art on westerosibears.net. She would end up becoming email pen pals with the site administrator, Jorah Mormont, and would regularly send him photos of Sandor for the website. The men of the bear community always treated both Sansa and Sandor with great respect, and Sansa would sometimes join their forums as a guest poster in the regular ‘ask an Archaeologist’ event.


	10. Crow's Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos [voiceover with footage of a slow pan over a thick forest set over mountainous crags]: The ancient seat of House Morrigen, Crow’s Nest guards the western edge of the rainwood on Cape Wrath. Children of the Forest inhabited this region until the coming of the First Men. These First Men invaders lost control of the region to a woods witch during the reign of King Durwald I Durrandon, more commonly known as Durwald the Fat. Will we find evidence of the fabled woods witches, or of the Children of the Forest? What can this region tell us about the reign of the hapless Durwald? As always, we have just three days to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the lovely ladies in the SanSan discord who helped with cocktail ideas for this chapter 🌝

**Very early on Day 1:**

**From:** Walda Bolton-Frey <WaldaFrey@BOHSS.com>  
 **Sent:** 17th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 11:01:25 PM  
 **To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** OH&S recommendations

We at Bolton Occupational Health and Safety Solutions™ are committed to providing effective management goals for the experts and crew of Digging Westeros. We work to reduce risk and ensure an effective environment of safety and excellence.

To this goal, we offer the following recommendations to implement immediately before our high-quality on-site inspection:

  1. Use of hard hats.
  2. Sharpness, length, and width of trowels to be monitored. Only tools of a requisite bluntness and size to be used.
  3. Hot drinks banned from the set.
  4. No public nudity.
  5. Onsite geese invasions to be subject to an Avian Expert Guidance Specialist.
  6. Ensure the full commitment of the Digging Westeros employees to Safety Excellence™



We look forward to conducting the inspection and working to further our safety goals.

Yours sincerely,

Walda Bolton-Frey

“No public nudity,” murmured Sansa into her piping hot cup of tea. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

She sighed and opened the email she had been saving to read after her work ones.

**From:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 4:49:55 AM  
 **To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** Northern Kiln Discovery Changing the Face of Dating Evidence

www.professionalarchaeologist.com/clamp-kilns-earlier-than-expected.html

One of Hyle Hunt’s hack jobs of a dig. Heard he was supposed to be on Baelish’s shit show. Have a read. Cunt can’t even summon the proper academic rigour to make his argument. Your paper on kiln use was far superior.

_Sandor Clegane,_

_Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

She smiled. Even just seeing Sandor’s name cheered her up. She missed him terribly, but was unsure what level of enthusiasm to show. ‘Clandestine relationship’ seemed to fit them best, but it had been a long time since she’d had any kind of relationship and she felt rusty in it. Unsure of how to proceed. If she was being honest with herself, horny and confused.

She took a sip of tea and formulated a reply.

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 5:31:23 AM  
 **To:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** RE: Northern Kiln Discovery Changing the Face of Dating Evidence

You’re awake early! I’ll read the article after filming today. I’ll phone you then too if that’s okay? I’ll have some time around dinner.

Miss you xoxo

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

She pressed the Send button and pursed her lips. They had kissed enough times that including kisses and hugs was surely acceptable. She closed her eyes, took another sip of tea, and tried not to wish he was with her right now. Sansa opened her eyes again when her email dinged with a new message.

**From:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 5:33:53 AM  
 **To:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** RE: Northern Kiln Discovery Changing the Face of Dating Evidence

Do you want to eat dinner together over video call? Bit of a shit date, but I fucking miss you.

_Sandor Clegane,_

_Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

Sansa made a high-pitched noise of excitement, which she hurriedly stifled by clapping her hand over her mouth.

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 18th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 5:35:39 AM  
 **To:** Sandor Clegane <SandorClegane@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Subject:** RE: Northern Kiln Discovery Changing the Face of Dating Evidence

THAT SOUNDS LIKE AN AMAZING DATE OF COURSE I WANT TO EAT DINNER VIRTUALLY TOGETHER

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

**Day 1:**

The trees around the large forest clearing that was the Crow’s Nest site rustled ominously, but it was hard to spoil Sansa’s mood. Sandor had asked her out on a real date.

They had eaten dinner together constantly when filming, all the team did during the evening prep time, but this was different. She would have to try to sneak her meal to her caravan without getting noticed and mercilessly teased.

Sansa adjusted her hard hat. She did not mind having her hair back in a braid, but she did object to having a flat skullcap of squashed hair every time she removed the helmet.

Varys and Davos both seemed unperturbed. Varys didn’t have any hair, and Davos’s was very short, so Sansa supposed her issue wouldn’t even register with them.

She gritted her teeth. “But what are the inspectors supposed to do? The list was, um, a lot.”

Varys looked sadly at his cup of iced coffee. “Ensure we comply with all health and safety regulations. Apparently those on high were unhappy about one of our archaeologists almost getting crushed.”

Sansa winced as she recalled the terror that had accompanied Sandor falling unconscious. The fear of the ambulance ride with him, the endless wait as they carted him off to surgery. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I suppose that’s reasonable.”

Davos looked up from where he had been texting his husband. “You obviously haven’t met them yet. Even Stannis thinks they are somewhat extreme in their rules.”

Sansa had known Stannis Baratheon for quite a few years now. She dreaded to imagine people he thought took rules too far.

“Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“The man rather rudely refused Jaime’s offer of Choccy Yum Yums,” Varys said in hushed tones. “Accused him of attempted bribery and unprofessionalism.”

Sansa blinked. That was not what she had been expecting. “Oh dear. What kind of person is rude about chocolate cookies?”

“Someone who has also been talking to Lommy a great deal.” Davos’s voice was grim.

Sansa looked around, as if saying Lommy’s name aloud might summon him. “Lommy? Our Lommy?”

“And not on film, obviously.”

“Well, no, not on film if he’s not an archaeologist.” Sansa searched for a positive spin on the situation. “Maybe this is just about the geese issue. At least we apparently now have a plan if anyone unleashes geese upon us again.”

Sansa glanced uneasily at the nearest forest edge, but no geese appeared. She could hear the distant twitter of little birds instead, and for a moment fancied herself amongst them before she refocused on the men in front of her.

“Perhaps.” Varys appeared unconvinced as he typed something into his phone. Sansa glimpsed Hot Pie’s name before Varys hunched over the screen, hiding it from view. 

Davos grimaced. “There’s something else.”

“Oh no, what?”

“Baelish has been on the radio.”

Sansa frowned. “People still go on the radio? I thought everything was podcasts and live streaming videos these days.”

“Radio Kings Landing,” said Davos. “He’s been claiming we’re sacrificing the well being of our archaeologists in favour of history.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be on a dig of his own for his new show?”

Varys looked up from his phone. “Yes, he’s in Dorne, attempting to prove Andals were the dominant cultural group there instead of the Rhoynar. He is also doing large amounts of publicity for it. He’s mad if you ask me, the Dornish don’t take kindly to their heritage being impugned.”

Sansa winced. She hoped Oberyn and Sarella wouldn’t hear about Petyr’s theory. “We’re an established name. We can let our academic rigour stand for itself.” Sansa scratched her hairline under the hat.

Tyrion choose that moment to wander over, followed by Pod with a wheelbarrow full of books. The books flapped merrily as the wheelbarrow bounced over the uneven terrain.

“Hello Sansa, Varys, Davos,” Tyrion said, adjusting his own hard hat with one hand. “Nice to see you all in the arse end of nowhere. Not even a tavern in sight. Just trees, caravans and apparently a dank cave. Lovely.”

Varys and Davos greeted the newcomers and then both rushed off to start the filming.

Sansa walked with Tyrion and Pod, who were heading towards the catering tent to set up Tyrion’s research on a table there.

“Have you seen this paint by numbers book of Durwald the Fat’s life?” asked Tyrion cheerfully, jabbing his thumb towards the wheelbarrow. “It’s said his control of the Stormlands extended as far as he could piss off of Storm’s End, except that he was so fat he couldn’t even see his cock.”

Sansa briefly considered the potential market for a paint by numbers book of an obscure Stormlands King and why someone decided it was worth the effort, before she replied. “Are you going to include that in the show?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I’m just here to please our viewers. I could ‘discover’,” Tyrion made air quotes, “that fact during my research. It’s quite an interesting story. The Durrandon family were the forerunners of the Baratheons, and everyone likes a good Baratheon scandal. Gods know they produced enough useless kings in their time.”

Sansa’s phone buzzed. “Check with Davos first,” Sansa replied absently as she fished her phone out of her pocket. “We don’t want to end up with a load of footage unsuitable for a family show.”

Tyrion snorted. “Yes, how exactly have they been managing with the esteemed Dr Clegane on that front?”

Sansa frowned down at her phone as they walked, choosing not to address Sandor’s robust use of language. There was a social media group invite from Aunt Lysa and a text message she had previously missed from Arya.

**WesterosSocialConnect invitation** : You’ve been invited to join 🎉 Eyrie Pue Solutions™ 🥰 Pro Tips n Tricks Group 🍸 by ❤️Lysa Arryn❤️

Sansa groaned and deleted the invite. She wondered if the misspelling was intentional. Another social invite flashed up as she deleted Aunt Lysa’s one.

**WesterosSocialConnect invitation:** You’ve been invited to join 🔺🔺🔺 Cancel Aunt Lysa 998AC 🔺🔺🔺 Group by Rickon Stark

Sansa giggled at that, and pressed the ‘join’ button, before checking the message on her SMS app.

**Arya [8.01am]: what’s ur definition of ‘public nudity’?**

Sansa sighed and didn’t reply. She glanced over at Tyrion. “I’m going to check on Brienne’s trench. Maybe Jaime has more Choccy Yum Yums I can eat before I have to face the health and safety people.”

Tyrion nodded. “Eating your feelings, a sound strategy.”

Sansa called past her caravan to pick up her tools in case anyone needed her to help. It turned out that Brienne had made an early start on her trench, and things were in full swing when Sansa arrived.

Woth the cameraman was there, though Sansa knew Varys had scheduled Lommy to stay with Brienne. She made a vague mental note to ask someone about that.

Brienne was holding a chunk of pottery up to the camera. “I think this is a vessel used by woods witches for their traditional remedies. I’ll need my colleague Olenna to check, as she’s the plant expert.”

Jaime was wearing his favourite striped jumper, paired with what looked like expensive jeans and a hard hat perched at a jaunty angle. It was an eye watering combination. He flashed his most charming smile at Brienne and then the camera.

Jaime had an objectively beautiful smile, though it made Sansa miss Sandor’s smile.

Sandor’s smile had character, and was the more precious for being rare.

“Maester Wyllis also wrote an account of woods witches during his time in Hardholme,” said Jaime smoothly, “as mentioned during our dig there. They were considered particularly useful in Free Folk societies, partially due to the lack of Maesters and access to any medicines based on a scientific method.”

Brienne’s jaw dropped and she blinked rapidly.

Sansa had never heard Jaime sound so well informed about something that was factually correct.

Brienne visibly pulled herself together, though she looked suspiciously flushed. “Some wood witches claimed to have the power of prophetic dreams, however they mostly used basic herb craft.”

“That’s right Brienne, they also performed valuable services as midwives and general healers.”

Sansa had no idea where Jaime’s sudden knowledge about woods witches was coming from, but Brienne looked like she wanted to drag him into the nearest caravan for some private time.

As Brienne and Jaime continued to dig, Brienne somewhat distractedly, Sansa took her hard hat off to give her scalp some much needed air. At least it was not hot. Sweat would have been so much harder to deal with.

Sansa had opened her personal toolkit, removed her favourite trowel and was contemplating jumping in to dig, when a man and a woman, both bedecked head to toe in fluorescent high visibility safety clothing, approached. Sansa tried not to make direct eye contact with the migraine-inducing clothing.

“Oh hello, you must be the safety inspectors,” she said to the area above the woman’s head. “I’m the archaeological consultant, Sansa Stark.”

The woman, who smiled and introduced herself as Walda Bolton-Frey, looked like someone who liked to give out hugs and lollipops. Her husband, Roose, had the facial expression of a man who wanted to ban both those things and inflict public lashings upon those who indulged in them. They were a jarring combination of a couple, the relationship equivalent of Jaime’s garish jumper and designer jeans.

Sansa had a brief flash of curiosity about their sex life, which she hurriedly repressed.

Walda’s smile did not waver as she approached the trench. “And you are Brienne Tarth?”

Woth made a discontented noise as he fiddled around with the settings on his camera. Sansa suspected the high visibility clothing was causing issues. It would not have surprised her if any of the ground mapping satellites circling Planetos started crashing down because of interference from Roose and Walda’s choice of attire.

“Brienne _of_ Tarth,” Brienne corrected.

Walda noted something down. “Quite. And Jaime, ah Jaime Lannister. My husband is acquainted with your esteemed father.”

Jaime tried to look at Roose but then started blinking rapidly and had to talk at the man’s shoes. “Funny, you don’t look like a man who would condone insider trading or traffic in illegal wildlife.”

“Now I need to check the size of your trowels,” said Walda hurriedly.

“That’s what she said,” said Jaime, grinning.

Woth paused his camera readjustments and laughed. “Good one, Jaime.”

Brienne groaned. “We only have standard issue tool kits here.”

“Speak for yourself,” interjected Jaime indignantly. “Mine is bespoke.”

“Nevertheless, I’d appreciate seeing them,” said Walda, before glancing at Sansa. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions while they are gathering their tools?”

Sansa tried to focus on Walda’s face in the ocean of fluorescent. “That’s fine.”

“You are the liaison between the archaeologists and the producers?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” replied Sansa, nodding and smiling.

“Yet you sometimes appear on camera and help with,” Walda frowned at the trench, “clearing dirt?”

Sansa felt her smile start to slip. “Yes, we try to keep things varied.”

“Varied.” Walda made some notes.

Sansa glanced over to where Roose was watching Jaime and Brienne.

“What’s the gage on that tool?” asked Walda.

Sansa glanced down at her hand, realising she was still holding her trowel. “It is a standard three and a half inches, Kings Landing type. Perfectly blunt.” She ran her thumb over the edge to demonstrate.

Walda peered at Sansa’s trowel and made some notes. “And you aren’t wearing a hard hat because?”

“There’s nothing to fall on me? We’re digging in the open air today.” Sansa frowned over at the edge of the forest. “Unless a branch comes flying out. Or I experience a bird strike.”

Walda hummed and flicked through a few pages. “You were in the building with poor Dr Clegane?”

“Yes,” Sansa replied shortly, not offering any further details.

Jaime and Brienne came back over with their kits before Walda could press any more about the events of Queenscrown.

“You’ll love my custom designed pearl handled Braavosi type trowel,” said Jaime. “It’s extra sharp.”

Walda took a step back, with an outraged breath. “Extra sharp?”

Sansa repressed another sigh. It was going to be a long day.

**Day 1, evening:**

“And then she made Jaime use one of the spare, extra blunt ones from the supply we keep for student helpers and clueless amateurs,” said Sansa, waving her fork around for emphasis. “I thought he would cry.”

She finally stopped to take a breath, realising she had not let Sandor get a word in edgewise as she ranted about her day.

Sandor snorted. He was holding the camera so near to his face that it kept fogging up slightly with his breath. “Health and safety bullshit.”

She could see his scars clearly since the phone was so close, and it warmed her heart that he did not mind her seeing them like that. “Enough about work though, how are you feeling?”

Sandor rolled his eyes. “I freed myself from imprisonment. I’m at Last Hearth airport.” He angled the screen so Sansa could see the airport food court behind him. He briefly aimed the phone at an enormous bowl of potato wedges, smothered in crispy bacon, melted cheese, and sour cream sitting on the table in front of him. “At least the food isn’t shit.”

Sansa poked at the chicken salad she had purloined from the catering tent. She had propped her phone up against a small vase of artificial gillyflowers on her tiny table. They were staying in caravans again since the nearest settlement was too far away to be practical. She didn’t normally mind the lack of privacy, but once she and Sandor became more intimate, it would be difficult to be private. It was something she had been considering amongst her relationship contemplation; especially given they had a long weekend coming up soon.

“Hospital isn’t prison, Sandor. It’s important you get better.”

Sandor snorted again, enough that the camera fogged up completely. “Tell your mother that hospital isn’t prison. Thought she would threaten me again to stop me getting discharged early.”

Having Sandor describe her mother’s offer of thanks as a ‘threat’ seemed a little harsh, but then perhaps Sandor was being a touch jumpy about unfamiliar Northern cultural practices. “Mum is harmless. We all just want you to get better. Dad said he bought you some more fruit to help you keep up your strength after he and Rickon thanked you too?”

Sandor muttered something that sounded like ‘my fucking grapes,’ which made little sense, but then said properly, “I’ll get better by seeing you again, Little Bird.”

“I miss you too, but you won’t see much of me I’m afraid. All I’m doing is working and sleeping at the moment, so it’ll just be at work.”

“That’s enough for me.”

Sansa speared a blueberry and some chicken from her salad and ate them slowly as she gathered her courage to say, “did you want to spend the next long break from filming together?”

Sandor’s eyes went wide. “I thought you wanted to take things slowly?” He seemed to think of something and frowned. “Not that I’m assuming we have to fuck.”

Him saying it out loud like that was both embarrassing and arousing. She cleared her throat. “I was thinking we could spend some time together at least. See how we feel about the, um, other thing in the moment. I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s been a long time, but I trust you.”

His gaze softened. “No pressure. You call the shots.”

She huffed a laugh. “Thanks.” She took a bite of a garlic crouton and crunched it slowly. “You know, workplace relationships are probably against health and safety regulations.”

Sandor groaned. “Let’s hope no one figures us out then.”

**Day 2:**

Sansa was listening to Olenna wax lyrical about her encounter with Walda and Roose the previous day when Sandor arrived.

“My eyes are still having trouble focusing on normal colours. Bah, I’ve seen ancient megastructures less visible than those two,” said the elderly archaeologist, before following Sansa’s gaze. “Well here’s the tall glass of water.”

Sansa gave a neutral hum, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Sandor walked a touch stiffly, followed closely by Lommy, who was presumably gathering footage so someone could make a heroic montage of the archaeologist for the show. Sansa had the sudden and visceral urge to sit Sandor in a hot tub to soothe his sore back and subsequently thoroughly distract him.

Her hormones were all over the place where Sandor was involved.

“Hello Sandor,” said Sansa, attempting cool professionalism. She angled her body to block the view and touched his hand. He brushed his fingers against hers for a brief second in return.

Olenna made a loud scoffing noise. “You aren’t fooling anyone, girl. Neither is your boyfriend, given he voluntarily got himself crushed to save you.”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat up, but she ignored Olenna. “I’ve got some papers for you to go through regarding the historical enrichment tomorrow. You’ll be working with Oberyn.”

“Aye, thanks,” replied Sandor, taking the papers with startling compliance.

“In my day we’d have a good snog in front of everyone to let them know we were involved.” Olenna gave a happy sigh, apparently enjoying the memory. “Or arrange for someone to catch us in a compromising position.”

“And we have some extra health and safety regulations we have to be mindful of.” Sansa resolutely did not look at Olenna.

“Fuckers,” rasped Sandor.

“I wonder if old Tywin Lannister still does that trick with the avocado,” Olenna’s voice was speculative. “Or the flaccid beach ball.”

“Here we go, grandmother.” Margaery’s melodic voice rang out and Sansa sagged in relief.

A posse of Tyrells chose that moment to approach, carrying chairs and various accoutrement of cocktail production.

Sansa watched in stunned disbelief as the Tyrells set up two chairs, and then a small trestle table a short distance away and covered it with bottles of alcohol.

“We were expecting you, Sandor,” said Garlan, gesturing towards the second chair. “Grandmother thought you might find it easier to sit.”

Sandor must have been in pain, because he took the seat without a fuss, dropping his toolkit underneath it.

“Do you want a cocktail?” Loras jiggled a bottle of blue curacao invitingly.

Sandor scowled at the vivid alcohol like Loras was offering him poison. “I don’t fucking drink cocktails.”

“Obviously he needs something macho, Loras,” said Garlan, shaking his head.

Loras regarded the alcohol selection and tapped his finger on his chin. “Tequila Sunrise?”

“Old Fashioned, Sandor?” asked Willas, holding up a bottle of twenty-year-old single malt whisky.

A small frown line appeared between Sandor’s eyes, but he nodded. “Aye then.”

“And a Cosmopolitan for you, grandmother.” Margaery said as she busied herself at the makeshift bar.

“Easy on the lime.” Olenna settled herself on her seat and watched her grandchildren with evident pride.

Sansa felt things had the potential to go off track, so she tapped her clipboard. “Might we start the dig?” she suggested gently.

Garlan handed Sandor the cocktail his older brother had just made. It even had ice cubes, citrus rind, and a cocktail cherry in it.

Willas nodded and limped over to the trench, motioning for Lommy to follow him.

He launched into an effortless monologue about the First Men roundhouse they started to uncover yesterday. Garlan, Loras and Margaery all joined him at carefully timed intervals. Olenna observed the choreographed spectacle with apparent delight, sipping her Cosmopolitan and mouthing some of the words along with various grandchildren. Sandor ignored everyone in favour of reading the notes Sansa had handed him and sipping his drink.

Sansa leaned over his shoulder and stole the cherry from Sandor’s drink. Her hard hat slipped forward a touch but remained in place.

He watched her mouth as she ate the cherry.

She made a point of subtly licking her lips afterwards and Sandor hurriedly placed the pile of papers on his lap.

Sansa was not much of a drinker. She had been put off drinking to excess during her first Digging Westeros Sevenmas party some years ago when Petyr drank too many Mint Juleps and tried to striptease in front of her and Margaery. Luckily, Margaery had stolen Willas’s cane and subsequently put a stop to that.

Willas, who was apparently the main family bartender, took a break after his monologue to make another round of drinks. Something called a Rusty Nail for Sandor and a dirty Martini for Olenna.

“Cheers,” said Olenna, clinking her glass with Sandor’s.

They barked out digging instructions to the Tyrell grandchildren, who probably did not need them, but were always willing to humour their grandmother and now apparently Sandor.

Sansa was making plans to drag herself away from Sandor and go to check on Brienne and Jaime when Roose and Walda arrived.

“We’re here to check the size of your trowels,” said Walda cheerfully, before her face fell. “Wait, is that a bar?”

“Would you like a drink, dear?” asked Olenna, taking a sip of her martini. “Willas makes an excellent Sex on the Beach. Or would a Quick Fuck be more appealing? You look like you nee…”

“How lovely to see you both, Walda, Roose,” said Sansa, stepping physically in front of Olenna to block her from view.

Walda’s jaw dropped, and she started making frantic notes in the folder she was carrying.

“As you can see, everything is under control. Absolutely ship shape.” Sansa tapped her askew hard hat with more than a touch of desperation. “Hats all around and the drinks are not hot. Not hot at all.”

Walda frowned as she kept writing, her husband looming over her like a brightly hued praying mantis.

They must have toned down their high visibility clothing because today it only gave Sansa a slight headache.

“Right,” said Walda, glancing between the fully stocked bar and Sansa. She shuffled her papers and moved a typed list to the top. “Let’s check those trowels.”

Roose held up a metal ruler, managing to make that simple action look oddly malevolent.

“Trowel size should be personal preference,” Olenna said from behind Sansa.

Loras looked up from the trench, where he was carefully brushing the dirt away from the main roundhouse curved wall. “I hear Dr Clegane uses a ten-inch trowel,” he said wistfully.

“Ten-inch trowels are a myth,” said Garlan indignantly. “And even if they weren’t, you couldn’t use it with any finesse.”

Olenna cackled into her cocktail and Sandor rolled his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you cunts like to know,” Sandor rasped, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

Walda frowned down at what Sansa assumed was her list of trowel regulations.

“Don’t worry Garlan,” Willas leaned on his cane and grinned at his brother. “I’m sure your own trowel use is fine, you needn’t feel inadequate.”

“And it’s okay Loras, I’m sure Renly is fine with your trowel,” Margaery said, before blowing their other brother a kiss.

Sandor took a swig of his cocktail. “Fuck off, Tyrell,” he said to the Tyrell grandsons in general, quite politely for him.

“Ten inches seems excessive,” said Walda, in a bewildered voice, tapping her list with a discontented frown. “Industry standard is a five-inch maximum.”

Olenna choked on her cocktail.

Sandor gently thumped her on the back.

“Would you like to measure my trowel again?” asked Sansa desperately. “Remember? Three and a half inches, Kings Landing standard design. All quite legitimate.”

**Day 3:**

A small cave sat hollowed out in a forest clearing. It appeared ominous, like a portal to the underworld, though Sansa knew it was a shallow slope down and not deep.

Oberyn had set up supplies on a portable table near the entrance, jars of various powdered substances and what appeared to be some lard. He’d positioned a pile of rags and moss beside them.

Oberyn wore cut off denim shorts again, though this pair was considerably shorter than usual and revealed the slightest hint of perfectly sculpted bottom cheeks when he bent over.

Sansa wondered if shorts that were too short violated any health and safety regulations. She’d had the memo a while back about nipples on camera, but no one had thought to include bottoms.

Sandor arrived, still walking slowly. He looked Oberyn up and down, evidently taking in the tiny shorts. “Fucks sake,” he muttered. “Put some fucking clothes on.”

Oberyn’s smile widened. “Nice of you to notice me,” he said, winking at Sandor.

“Davos is on his way too,” Sansa interjected hurriedly. “Then we can make a start.”

Sandor eyed the collection of powdered pigments and oils. “That looks better than a gimp suit or a fucking unicorn horn.” He glanced at Sansa. “You never did tell me what activity I was scheduled to do in Queenscrown.”

“I forgot about it with all the drama, but Hot Pie had organised the ingredients for some traditional Targaryen cuisine and you were supposed to eat some. Pigeon pies and all that.”

Sandor grimaced. “That actually sounds fucking decent.”

“We’ll do some food activities at the next dig,” Sansa replied soothingly. “But cave painting first.”

Davos arrived then, chatting to the Lommy-controlled camera about local legends around the woods witches. He seamlessly switched tack when he reached the three of them.

“But today we are going further into the past than simply woods witches. Our artist in residence, Oberyn Martell, has prepared an activity that harks back to the ancient times of the Children of the Forest.” There was a slight pause as Davos noticed Oberyn’s shorts, blushed, but then rallied his professionalism and clapped the Dornishman on the shoulder. “What can you tell us about the paintings and writing found in these caves?”

“We have a selection through here,” said Oberyn, picking up a lantern and leading Davos and Lommy into the mouth of the cave.

Sansa and Sandor exchanged a glance. He took her hand and squeezed it, and then followed the others.

Sansa had never realised simple hand touches could be so arousing. She shook herself, and followed, carefully picking up the portable table and depositing it a little way inside the cave.

The cave itself was perhaps three times bigger than her caravan. It was well lit with natural light at the front but dark towards the back. She was not sure why it wasn’t properly set up with lights for the shoot, but dim, lantern-lit ambience seemed like a Varys style choice.

“The paintings are classic Children of the Forest, a combination of swirl shapes and animal representations, depending on the date. Around the time of the invasion of the First Men we get swirl arrangements, like here and here,” Oberyn pointed to some markings on the wall, “whereas more ancient paintings are depictions of animals such as wolves and aurochs.”

Sansa studied the swirl shapes. It was a pattern familiar to anyone versed in Northern history, intricately linked with ancient cultural artefacts associated with the Others, found north of the Wall.

She shivered, the feeling of an old unknowable dread clawing its way up her spine.

Sansa shook it off and focused back on their safe, modern-day situation.

“That is all most interesting. But I also believe there is writing carved into the stone as well? I’d be thrilled to see some old graffiti.”

“Yes Davos, once the First Men settled here under the early Storm Kings, we get messages carved into the stone in their language. An archaic variant of the common tongue.”

Davos touched the wall, just below the largest patch of writing. “And can we read the messages? I don’t recognise the script.”

“Oh yes, the alphabet is a variant of ours and I have some familiarity with it.” Oberyn pointed to one at the top. “This one says ‘I fucked Hildegard against this wall’.”

There was a pregnant pause.

Sandor regarded the wall with apparent interest.

Oberyn motioned to a message lower down. “And this one indicates that Grelka will suck cock for only two copper pieces.”

The camera wavered in Lommy’s hands.

“Righto,” replied Davos hoarsely. “Back to the paintings then.”

Sandor coughed into his fist, which sounded suspiciously as if he was covering a laugh.

“Oh yes, we have another lovely selection of animal portraits, just here.” Oberyn gestured to the wall and smiled like a proud father, unflappable as always. “This aurochs is particularly fine, very fat and realistic. We have some early hunting hounds here too, and some wolves.”

The family-friendly paintings seemed to rally Davos’s spirits. “And you’ve got a selection of pigments to try out on one of the untouched walls?”

“Yes, my esteemed colleague Dr Clegane will be learning to reproduce prehistoric painting methods.” Oberyn gestured towards a blank area of the cave wall.

They moved to the table that Sansa had positioned in a patch of light.

“I’ve pre-ground these pigments for time purposes,” said Oberyn, “but the Children would have done that using rocks, or even the joint of an animal shoulder bone.”

Sandor stepped forward and picked up a jar containing an orange powder, holding it up to the light.

“This orange colour is red ochre,” Oberyn pointed to the jar Sandor was holding, then indicted another jar on the table, “and this mustard shade is yellow ochre. Both are derived from clay, as are these shades of brown ochre. They are high in iron oxide, which provides the yellow tint to the pigment.”

Davos opened the jar of yellow and stuck his index finger in. He rubbed it against his thumb and held up his now bright yellow finger for the camera. “That’s amazing. It is so vivid, it looks like something you might buy in a shop.”

“Another shade of brown is this raw sienna, which is also a type of clay. It contains iron oxide, but also manganese oxide so it is darker that the ochre shades. If one heats it, the clay becomes burnt sienna, and turns even darker, but I’ve left it in its natural state for today.”

Davos picked up the jar with black pigment in it. “And this one looks like the contents of my fireplace.”

Oberyn nodded. “Yes, I’ve got simple charcoal here for the black, made from burned wood, though they often used burned bones too.”

“And you’ve got white? I would have thought white would be a more difficult pigment to get.”

“White clay is found in nature, however in this case I sourced ground calcite for the white pigment. It is rarer in these parts, though the Children of the Forest colonies engaged in basic trade with each other.”

“All right. Now these are just powder at the moment, what will you use to turn them into paint?”

“For the bindings, the Children used a variety of substances. Water, bodily fluids, vegetable extract or animal fat. I’ve chosen goose fat for our purposes.”

Lommy made an alarmed noise, but calmed down quickly at a glance from Davos.

Oberyn showed Sandor how to mix the colours with the goose fat, then apply them to the stone walls with his choice of either a small pad of moss or fingers.

Sandor shrugged, then dipped his fingers into the paint.

Sansa watched as Oberyn and Sandor started work on the paintings. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out to check her messages.

**Arya [3.45pm]:** **Sansa where r u?**

**Sansa [3.45pm]:** **I’m at the cave painting demo. Why?**

**Arya [3.46pm]: Mmm.** **Kk nvm.**

**Sansa [3.46pm]: Why??**

**Sansa [3.46pm]:** **ARYA WHAT DID YOU DO?**

**Arya [3.46pm]:** **Ffs u r very suspicious. Anyway it’s fine, I’ll get Gendry to pickpocket the key from Varys**

**Sansa [3.47pm]: …**

**Sansa [3.47pm]:** **I did not just read that**

**Sansa [3.47pm]: What key?**

**Arya [3.48pm]:** **Eh it’s fine. I just locked Roose and Walda in the first aid caravan. The production ppl should spring for a better door imo.**

**Sansa [3.48pm]:** **Was it an accident?**

**Arya [3.49pm]: Well.** **Let’s go with yes, and see where that takes us.**

**Sansa [3.49pm]: Oh Arya.**

**Arya [3.49pm]:** **It’s fine, they’ve stopped shouting. Prob boning to pass the time. Eww.**

**Sansa [3.50pm]:** **I’ll be there as soon as we finish here.**

Sansa sighed, which she seemed to have done a lot on this dig. Sandor, Oberyn, Davos and Lommy clustered close to the wall. Oberyn showing Davos the painting techniques on a demonstration aurochs and Sandor working with his broad back blocking her view of what he was painting.

Sansa frowned. She should have organised a chair for Sandor, he was holding himself stiffly again.

She watched them for a few more minutes, cave painting being a quick process, until Sandor stood back triumphantly. He brushed his paint covered hands together, not bothering to wipe them with a rag.

“Well Sandor,” Davos said, smiling at the camera, “what have you got to show us?”

Sandor smirked and Sansa angled herself so she could see what he had painted.

Lommy lowered the camera and peered over the top of it before raising it back up to his eye. “What exactly is that hound doing to that wolf?”

Sansa squinted at the blurry picture, then put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my.”

It turned out Sandor had quite the flare for art, because it was entirely evident what the hound was doing to the wolf.

“Perhaps we could focus on Oberyn’s aurochs?” said Davos.

Oberyn stared at Sandor’s painting and hummed admiringly. “I applaud your use of red ochre on the wolf. It’s a very,” Oberyn glanced over at Sansa, “particular shade. You have a talent for art, my friend.”

It was a striking image. Primal. Raw and passionate.

Sandor snuck a glance at her and the unscarred corner of his mouth twitched upwards. She itched to touch him.

Davos tapped Oberyn’s aurochs. “This is an excellent reproduction of the ancient art.”

Oberyn waved his hand. “A mere copy, derivative. Unlike the passion and sexual energy of…”

Davos ostentatiously examined his wristwatch. “Yes well. I’m due at a briefing with Tyrion. I’ll see you all at the end of dig ‘casual chat’.”

He scurried away.

Oberyn looked between Sansa, Sandor and the amorous canines on the wall. “I suspect this might be the time to make a graceful exit also. Come, friend Lommy.”

Lommy lowered his camera. “Do you think Jaime has any more Choccy Yum Yums?”

“I’m sure that Jaime has an ample supply. I encouraged him to get the Dornish brand. You’ll love them my friend, they are all snakes.” Oberyn’s voice trailed off as he led the cameraman out of the cave. Coincidentally, taking the light with him.

Sansa looked up at Sandor, now only illuminated by the faint natural light from the entry, then stepped into his embrace, carefully pulling him down for a kiss.

His kisses already felt like home. After so many days since they last been so close, and having to spend most of the previous day with him but not touching him, Sansa was desperate for contact.

He backed her up against the cool wall of the cave. She slipped a hand under his shirt, feeling the hot skin of his side. He grunted a little in what sounded like pain, but he still held her close.

“We’re against Hildegard’s wall,” said Sansa when they had to stop kissing long enough to breathe. “I hope she enjoyed herself.”

Sandor glanced up at the graffiti, then brushed another kiss on her lips. “Fuck I wish we could recreate that scene.”

Even with her nerves, so did Sansa. “I doubt you could lift me up to do that right now,” Sansa murmured before licking the shell of his good ear as he nuzzled her.

He huffed a laugh into her hair. “So fucking practical. I’d have a good fucking go at lifting you, even if I broke my stitches to do so.”

She kissed him again and lifted his hand to her breast.

He cupped it gently, murmuring “are you sure?”

“Yes,” she whispered in reply.

She wished they had longer to spend in privacy, but she knew someone would doubtless be along soon. The stolen moments made their kisses even sweeter.

There was a commotion outside the cave, and they sprang apart.

More accurately, Sansa sprang sideways, and Sandor stood up straight, winced and rubbed his back.

“Well this is shocking,” said Walda. She carried a large lantern, throwing the entire cave into stark relief. Sansa had had appointments with gynaecology Maesters who had less well-lit rooms than Walda had now created.

Sansa could not summon anything more than a tepid “oh, you got loose from the first aid caravan,” in response.

“No hard hats. No reflective clothing. This cave looks patently unsafe and,” Walda paused and stared at them both through narrowed eyes, “what is that on your top?”

Sansa looked down. Paint smudges covered her torso, but on her breast was a perfect, very large handprint, in red ochre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn Martell has a doctorate in linguistics from Sunspear University. He decided to become an artist after he finished his studies, finding a conventional career track too confining. Something of a renaissance man, he has had works exhibited the finest galleries in Kings Landing (pencil sketch portraits mostly, though in his youth he went through a famous ‘purple period’ where he only worked in oils and refused to acknowledge the colour yellow). Oberyn engages in a lucrative side hustle as a male model, and has had some success with his other academic passion, herpetology. The latter includes a well-regarded paper entitled “Mating Habits of the Red Viper” published in Herpetology Today 3rd Moon 996 edition. He has also crocheted his own mankini in the colours of the pansexual flag, which he wears every year on the Martell family float at the Sunspear Pride rally.
> 
> Official Digging Westeros record of the Crow’s Nest cave ancient graffiti.   
> Translations by Dr O. Martell:  
> 1\. I fucked Hildegard against this wall  
> 2\. Grelka will suck cock for only two copper pieces   
> 3\. This was carved by the most handsomest man in the Stormlands  
> 4\. Dragons are a myth. Wake up people.  
> 5\. I caught Thorni fucking a Weirwood tree  
> 6\. Duran killed the son of Mag the Mighty with this axe  
> 7\. The Children said they created an enemy to fight us but they are liars   
> 8\. Beware the goose at dawn


	11. Interlude: Kings Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a joy to write because I was absolutely in the mood for some adorable bromance, so I hope you enjoy it too. Many thanks to Mal for their Sandor & Loras friendship OTP idea!

**From:** Sansa Stark <SansaStark@diggingwesteros.tv>  
 **Sent:** 24th day of the 5th Moon, 998, 8:51:01 PM  
 **To:** Archaeology and Geophysics Crew Members  
 **Subject:** Notes before the Rosby dig

Hi Team!

I hope you are all looking forward to our Rosby dig 😊

Please make sure you have a copy of the list of health and safety recommendations from Walda and Roose Bolton of Bolton Occupational Health and Safety Solutions™. Several of you emailed me recommending we use this list as toilet paper. Please don’t do this, printer paper doesn’t flush well.

To whomever keeps ‘anonymously’ slipping me notes re making matching Digging Westeros crew shirts featuring Dr Clegane’s handprint: Arya I recognise your handwriting and if you don’t stop I’m signing you up for all of Aunt Lysa’s social media groups.

Finally, final reminder that some photographers from Modern Archaeologist will be coming to our Rosby dig. Since we’ll be so close to Kings Landing, feel free to take advantage of the fashion district there if you need to refresh your wardrobe so we all look our best!

_Sansa Stark_

_Consultant Archaeologist, Digging Westeros_

***

Sandor took a bite of his organic roast chicken, then washed it down with some pretentious craft beer. Someone had named it ‘ _Rhaena Targaryen’s Sorrow_ Stormlands Stout’, which was both pompous and ill-omened, given that history recorded Rhaena Targaryen’s husband poisoning all her close friends with Tears of Lys and then offing himself. Why anyone would want to associate an alcoholic beverage with that situation was beyond him.

Loras had chosen a trendy café in Flea Bottom to meet, because apparently food needed to precede any shopping experience. The kind of food that hipster cunts ate. Though Sandor’s meal tasted good, he’d give them that.

The waitress placed a traditional ‘bowl of brown’, served in a trencher because of course it was, in front of Loras, who flashed his dimples in thanks. The young woman blushed and scurried off.

Sandor snorted and pointed at Loras’s stew with his knife. “That shit used to be all but poison.”

“I’m aware,” replied Loras, who looked somehow diminished on his own without his usual crowd of family nearby. “But like everything in Flea Bottom, it’s gentrified and is now very sought after. Did you know restaurants can’t even reveal the ingredients for a genuine bowl of brown? If they do, then they legally have to call it something else because the mystery meat aspect is historically mandated.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes at the brown. The stew was soaking into the trencher. The loaf of bread they hollowed out to make it likely wasn’t stale enough to repel the liquid. “It’s probably rat. Or roadkill.”

Loras shrugged and took a spoonful.

It wasn’t quite greasy looking enough to be a proper a bowl of brown, in Sandor’s opinion. It should have a layer of fat hiding the mystery ingredients and liquid underneath. He’d stick to his chicken. At least he knew what animal it was.

“So, you wanted to meet me here so I could give you some advice on your apparel?” Loras said, before taking a sip of his ale. Unlike Sandor, he poured his into the provided glass. The empty bottle had ‘ _Fifty Lashes on the Street of Sisters_ Crownlands Ale’ written on the front.

Sandor took a mouthful of his own beer. “Aye.”

Loras hummed, a faint frown line appearing between his eyes. “Did you ask me for help because I’m gay?”

Sandor scowled at that idea. “No.”

Loras picked his spoon up and waggled it at Sandor. “Because I’ll have you know not all gay men are fashionably inclined. Look at Varys. He thinks his silken robes are fashion forward. News flash Varys, the slumber party called, and they want their dressing gowns back.”

“I don’t give a shit who you want to fuck, Tyrell. I asked you because you always look…” Sandor waved his hand in Loras’s general direction, “decent. Matching. I don’t fucking know, clothed.”

Loras pursed his lips. “You asked me for help because I can successfully dress myself?”

“Fucks sake. I should have asked your brother.”

“Which one, Garlan? Please, he’d have had you in polos and chino shorts.” Loras shuddered. “Or Willas? Otherwise known as Captain Sweater Vest. No, whatever your motivation, you made the correct choice in me.”

“Aye,” replied Sandor dubiously. He probably should have asked Garlan for help, polo shirts or not. He always looked matching too, and there would have been less drama.

Loras took another spoonful of brown, humming in appreciation as he ate it. “Now, what type of aesthetic are we trying to achieve?” he asked when he’d swallowed his mouthful.

Sandor blinked, a chicken leg poised halfway to his mouth. “The fuck?”

“Your look. The style you want to project. Kings Landing Prep? Dornish Rogue? Asshai Mystic?”

“I want to look like a person,” said Sandor through his subsequent mouthful of chicken, “not a character in a mummers play. Asshai Mystic, Seven Hells.”

Loras hummed and eyed him critically. “You are from near Lannisport, yes? We could go for some classic Westerlands style? What’s your opinion on tweed?”

Sandor scowled, remembering his father’s omnipresent tweed cap. “Fuck tweed. What would a Northern style be?”

Loras brightened, sitting up straight and grinning. “We’re trying to impress the gorgeous Sansa Stark with style choices from her homeland? Now everything makes sense. I didn’t think magazine photographers were enough to encourage you to have a wardrobe makeover. Sansa can certainly dress. I am all over her Smouldering Archaeologist look.”

There wasn’t much point denying it because he typically gave no fucks about how he looked on camera. Sansa was, however, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She deserved better than to have an ugly old dog like him with her, but the least he could do was to try to look decent. “Can you help me or not?”

“Yes. Oh yes.” Loras typed something into his phone. “There’s a _North of the Wall_ store nearby. Furs are out anywhere south of the Neck, but we could get you some elegant check shirts in dark, dour colours. Some serviceable hats, plain jeans in a classic cut. The fashion world is your White Harbour oyster.”

Sandor finished his beer in one go. “Alright,” he grunted.

Loras kept studying his phone. “We may struggle with sizes, but Northern stores tend to carry stock for the more robust gentleman. If we get desperate, we can order something from the _Winter is Coming_ website, because they are another quality Northern store, but I’d rather see you try garments on.”

Sandor consumed his chicken with increasing trepidation as Loras kept eyeing him critically and trying to discuss fabric patterns.

“But thick plaid is so passé,” said Loras, sometime later, finishing the last of his bowl of brown. “Thin plaid would get lost on your frame, so maybe we should go with the thick. Make a bold statement with it. Strong shades of charcoal are very this season, so we could also work with that.”

“You ready?” said Sandor, who hadn’t spoken in several minutes. Mostly he’d been nodding along to Loras’s monologue and thinking about how glorious Sansa’s breast had felt in his hand for the small amount of time he got to experience it. Over the past few days he had never wanked so much in his life to one brief grope of tit.

“Yes, my fashion juices are flowing,” replied Loras, gathering his things and heading out the door with Sandor in tow.

_North of the Wall_ turned out to be bewilderingly large and packed full of men’s apparel. Sandor wouldn’t have known where to start, but Loras rubbed his hands together gleefully.

“We need some strong horizontals for visual appeal since you are so delightfully sizable,” said Loras, looking joyfully around like Jaime Lannister at a Choccy Yum Yum factory. “Tell me, where do you stand on the subject of decorative pocket handkerchiefs?”

“I’m an archaeologist,” Sandor growled, “not a fucking eighth century dandy.”

Loras rolled his eyes. “I believe the polite term is fop, not dandy. Anyway, pocket handkerchiefs have been popular from the eighth century, through the early nineth century up until today. With the coming of the year one thousand so soon I do hope you can broaden your horizons.”

Sandor exhaled and shook his head. “Fine. I’m not completely opposed to pocket handkerchiefs.”

Loras grinned triumphantly, the little shit. “Excellent. We could find one with a floral motif. Everyone suits flowers.” He sighed happily. “What about hats?”

“If it didn’t make me look like a cunt, I’d wear one.”

“Excellent.”

He trailed after Loras like a lost puppy as the other man wandered from rack to rack scooping up various items. Sandor didn’t ask questions. So long as he wound up appearing even slightly worthy of Sansa he was willing to go along with it.

Loras ushered him towards the changing rooms when they had managed to accumulate a truly enormous pile of apparel.

“We’ve got some flannel shirts, mostly dark but I do believe this carmine would look striking.” Loras held up one shirt, which Sandor would have called red, but what did he know. “It’s very lumberjack, but I think you can pull it off.”

“Fine,” said Sandor, shrugging.

“And some dark wash jeans. I’ve chosen a straight cut, which you can carry off with those delightful shoulders.”

Sandor took the jeans. He vaguely knew jeans came in types, though he had never given it any consideration.

Loras started hanging items up. “These are puffer jackets made with the down of Northern geese. You really don’t need any more bulk, so I’ve chosen the low-puff options. They are ethically produced from hand-reared geese in Deepwood Motte, which is an exciting local business.”

Sandor grunted his assent.

Loras was running out of room on the hooks so he started hanging items off the sides of the booth. “Some sweater options for you to try. I favour the shawl neck one made from Moat Cailin merino, but you can see how you feel. I’ve got some lovely charcoal shades for the sweaters, but also smoke, dove, slate and greywacke.”

The clothing was starting to dominate the space inside the booth, but Sandor nodded.

Loras flashed his dimples, though Sandor was immune to their effect. “Okay try these on to start with. I’ll be nearby if you want to do a little fashion show.”

“Fuck off,” Sandor said without heat.

Loras laughed as he pulled the curtain shut, leaving Sandor with his load of clothes. He put the first shirt and jeans on and regarded himself critically in the mirror. He looked fine? Like he was wearing clothes. Still big, still ugly, but well dressed.

“How is the fit?” called Loras. “How is the shirt drape working for you? Any issues with the drop of the jeans not sitting correctly? Do the patterns emphasise your musculature?”

Sandor frowned at his reflection and sighed. “Fucks sake, Tyrell. You can come in and help. Just no fucking jokes about trowel size.”

Loras twitched the curtain open. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Sandor stood there like an obedient hound as Loras tutted, fussed and made notes. He stripped off as Loras chose the next lot of clothes for him to try on.

Loras pursed his lips disapprovingly when he caught sight of Sandor’s black boxer briefs. “I don’t suppose you would consider undergarments in any colour other than black? A sensual red? Leopard print?” he said as he handed Sandor the new jeans.

Sandor scowled at him. “Black.”

Loras threw his hands up in defeat. “I suspected as much, but I’m sure Sansa would appreciate some variety.”

Sandor maintained his scowl as he buttoned his jeans. “Black. Nothing wrong with black underwear.”

“As you say. You’re as bad as Garlan. Why are straight men so dull in their undergarment choices?” Loras sighed. “Well, straight men and Willas. Willas always wears white y-fronts. Can you imagine the horror?” Loras shot Sandor a despairing look before passing him a sweater.

Sandor pulled on the sweater. “Oberyn and Ellaria don’t seem to mind what Willas wears. Aren’t they in some kind of group relationship?”

“Polyamory. And Oberyn has a crochet mankini,” said Loras darkly. “I’ve seen it. I’m not even going to mention his jean shorts. He’s lost the right to comment on any kind of apparel.”

Picking out ‘apparel ensembles’ with Loras took Sandor far longer than it would have on his own, but he was willing to admit he looked decent in the choices they made. Or, more accurately, that Loras made.

Quite some time later, they stepped outside the shop into the teeming streets of Flea Bottom, as Sandor grumbled about the damage to his credit card. Luckily he had a large limit and was always scrupulous about paying it all off every month.

“We could also try the local _Big and Tall_ store,” said Loras enthusiastically, “though they seem to specialise in large and shapeless and you need to show off those delightful muscles. They do stock excellent novelty socks though.”

Sandor opened his mouth to reply with a grudging affirmative when he spotted the familiar figure of a colleague getting into a limousine across the street. “What the fuck is Lommy doing here?” Sandor said instead.

“Lommy told Varys that he was visiting his ailing great-aunt today,” said Loras, clapping his hand over his mouth dramatically. “I overheard the conversation.”

“Somehow I don’t believe his ailing great-aunt drives around in a limousine.” The vehicle containing Lommy pulled into the traffic as Sandor noted the number plate.

“My great-aunt Janna, Grandmother’s sister, drives around in a limousine.” Loras smiled, causing several passers-by to stumble under the overwhelming charm of it. “But the Redwyne side of the family is quite extra. I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”

“Lommy isn’t ancient Westerosi nobility, unlike some people,” said Sandor, his tone dry. He didn’t want to give Loras too much shit though. He was, after all, developing very fond feelings for a Stark, and that lot were as noble as they came.

“Petyr uses limos, he always used to try to get them paid for under the Digging Westeros budget until Grandmother had a little chat with him about it.” Loras stared after the departing limo. “You don’t think Lommy is…?”

“Aye, could be that cunt Baelish is involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loras would meet Davos’s brother-in-law Renly Baratheon at the Digging Westeros Sevenmas party later that year, bonding over a mutual dislike of roast goose. Renly was a junior partner at the family law firm at the time, but was looking for a change of career because working for Stannis was giving him stress headaches. Eventually Loras and Renly would marry, and they decided together to settle in Highgarden and open a florist shop named ‘Night of Flowers’ (specialising in evening weddings and formal events). They would later adopt three children, a boy and two girls, and also spent many happy years involved in the local ‘Keep Highgarden Green’ environmental initiative.


	12. Rosby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos (to camera, but his skin has a slightly orange cast, like the operator had some trouble with the colour): The sleepy hamlet of Rosby is situated northeast of Kings Landing but feels like a world away from that bustling metropolis. Surrounded by lush and bountiful farmland, Rosby has been a small part of history, being readily conquered by various Kings over the centuries. The most notable of these came pre-conquest, when Benedict II Justman ruled as King of the Trident and whose body is reported to have been interred somewhere in this area, which was home to a silent sisters cloister. Will we find evidence of the King or the religious order? What history will we uncover? Join the Digging Westeros team as we have just three days to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lovely readers, apologies for the lengthy delay – my health issues are long term, unfortunately, so how much I can write always depends on that.  
> On a happier note, it’s my birthday today (Dec 31)! 🥳🎉I wanted to update a couple of my WIPs on AO3 as a birthday present to myself so I hope you enjoy this one.

** Minutes of staff meeting.  **

Note taker: S. Stark

Apologies: Lommy Greenhands, rest of the camera crew. Unable to be contacted. Davos Seaworth has offered to try to locate them.

Summary of agenda items covered:

  1. Sarella Sand has requested we use they/them pronouns for them. Appropriate changes therefore needed for DW website and promotional material.
  2. Extra funding for crew wardrobes approved by producers.
  3. Due to staff protests, the requirement to wear hard hats on the dig has been relaxed unless there is a genuine danger of falling masonry.
  4. Complaint from Mothers Against Moral Degeneration received re shirtless archaeologists in Cuy.
  5. Request from _Cuy Knitters Almanac Magazine_ for shirtless Digging Westeros photo shoot with Dr J. Lannister and Dr S. Clegane.
  6. Festival of the Harvest to be held in Rosby at the same time as time allotted for the dig at Dayne Manor. Limited accommodation available and crew will need to share billets.
  7. Photographers from Modern Archaeologist have had to delay their photoshoot with the Digging Westeros crew due to accommodation constraints in Rosby.



**Day 1, early:**

“What’s the use of eggs if you can’t dunk your toast in the yolk?” Sandor demonstrated as he spoke, his yolk smearing itself all over his plate.

“Butter is the only item that has any place on toast,” replied Sansa primly. “And jam, if one is feeling adventurous. Eggs are best enjoyed on their own.”

Sandor stared in horror at her for so long the yolk slipped off his toast in yellow glops. Then he got a gleam in his eye. “I need to make you a proper breakfast in bed one morning,” he said abruptly. “Change your mind about decent breakfast food.”

They had very recently made plans to stay at Sandor’s apartment in Lannisport for their next long weekend break, and Sansa’s cheeks flamed hot at his implication. Their opportunities for alone time had always been scant since their first kiss in Queenscrown and had dwindled to non-existent with the cramped accommodations in Rosby. Everyone was sharing with multiple colleagues, and tempers were frayed. Her back hurt from sleeping on a bunk bed. Sansa wasn’t sure what was happening at the harvest festival because she’d been too busy to investigate, but occasionally the aroma of burned sage drifted over the dig.

Work troubles aside, Sansa wanted Sandor so badly she ached. With difficulty, she pushed her frustrated arousal away and tried to respond calmly.

“I look forward to it,” Sansa said in an attempt at dignity. Her voice emerged as a squeak. She shoved a mouthful of plain buttered toast in her mouth to cover her fluster.

At that moment Davos came rushing into the mess tent with a look of distress on his kind face. “Baelish has poached our camera crew,” he said, slightly out of breath. “They’ve left to join his show.”

“All the fucking camera crew? Lommy? Woth? That other cunt with the fucked up hair?” said Sandor disbelievingly, echoing Sansa’s own thoughts. Except she didn’t think the f-word.

Davos nodded disconsolately. “Aye. They’ve all defected.”

“But we need to start filming,” said Sansa, all the planned events for the day running through her head. “Arya and Gendry are already doing the ground scans. Brienne’s out with them so she can call dibs on the best trenches to keep Jaime out of trouble. Varys spent all last night making sure the harvest festival people don’t cause bother. We’re all ready to go.”

Sandor tugged on the front of his top to straighten it. Sansa hadn’t seen him in that item of clothing before, a nicely fitted charcoal coloured shirt. He looked delicious, and she suddenly wanted to lick him. He was a touch pale from his recent injury, but otherwise seemed almost fully recovered. Pale or not, he was still sexy.

Sandor spoke, and Sansa pulled herself back to their alarming reality. “I know that Tyrion has some behind camera experience,” Sandor said, looking oddly cagey. “He made some, ah, short films at University.”

Sansa opened her mouth to ask for particulars, before deeming it prudent not to enquire too closely about Tyrion’s experiences. She had known Tyrion long enough to understand she probably didn’t want to know details. “Well, he could help start us off today,” she said instead, “so we have some footage to work with. Try to find professionals who can join us for tomorrow.”

She frowned as the true import of the news truly sunk in. Camera crew weren’t supposed to just up and leave in the middle of a show. They all had contracts.

Sandor hummed. “Might have to get him a fucking stool to stand on. Don’t need all the footage to be of my knees.”

“Sandor, you can’t say things like that,” said Sansa indignantly, distracted from her contemplation about the legality of the camera crew leaving.

Sandor smirked at her unrepentantly and her heart gave a brief flutter. Every time he flashed one of his rare smiles, she wanted to strip him naked and drag him into the nearest empty tent.

“Sansa?” said Davos gently, and she realised she was staring at Sandor, imagining ripping his new shirt off with her teeth.

“Anyway, yes,” she blurted. “We need to get moving. I’ll ask around if anyone else can use the cameras.”

**Day 1, mid-morning:**

Garlan Tyrell looked at his copy of _Professional Television Camera Operation For Dummies_ and then at the camera. “I think I’ve got it,” he said confidently. “It’s saying something about finding the white balance, but I can’t see that button so I’m just going to record anyway.”

Sansa glanced up at the retreating back of Jaime Lannister. He’d forgone his beloved striped sweater in favour of a colourful knitted hat with matching fingerless gloves. Garlan had attempted to film him, and the ensemble had apparently caused the camera to start having issues with recording colour. Sansa was certain there were several shades in Jaime’s hat that were invisible to the human eye, discernible only by any nearby mantis shrimp.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this, Garlan?” asked Sansa. “Tyrion is with Sandor, I can always call him over here to do it.”

Olenna had assured them shortly before she disappeared into the quiet interior of Dayne Manor that Garlan would be fine with some camera work. Garlan himself assured them that he’d be fine with camera work.

Sansa was less confident, but they were desperate, after all.

Garlan flapped a careless hand and flashed her a perfect smile. “I’ve framed the next shot beautifully. It’s Loras-level of aesthetic, it’ll be great. The editors can fix everything else up in post.”

Sansa signalled for Davos to start, trying not to worry. At least Davos wasn’t wearing anything too colourful to upset the camera.

Davos straightened and smiled at the camera. “We’re here in Rosby at the magnificent manor house of Gerold Dayne. He knew there were ruins in the backyard when he moved in, but was unaware how extensive they were. He contacted Digging Westeros, and we were more than happy to answer the call to archaeological arms.” Davos turned to the man standing beside him. “Are you looking forward to knowing more about your own personal ruins?”

The owner was a man who looked about Sansa’s age. He had silver hair and purple eyes, reminding Sansa of Daenerys Targaryen, except this man had a streak of midnight black in his hair that flopped over one eye. His attire was entirely black too, with a startling amount of eye liner applied to complete his look.

“Call me Darkstar,” the man muttered, flicking the fringe of hair back so he could peer at Davos. “I heard bones are supposed to be buried here, but legally I’m not allowed to dig them up myself.”

Davos blinked several times and gave the man a brief side eye. “I… see. Well, our historian Tyrion Lannister informs me about rumours Benedict II Justman may be interred in Rosby too.”

Darkstar looked around avidly and licked his lips. “Surrounded by the tragic dead in my own house. An allegory for life, I suppose. All gone, snuffed out in the blink of an eye.”

“Wait, wait, stop please.” Garlan peered at something on the side of the camera, then squinted at his screen and frowned. He glanced at the book he was still holding, then shrugged and waved for Davos to continue.

Sansa rubbed her forehead. She was getting a stress headache.

Davos motioned Brienne over from where she’d been pretending to dig in a nearby trench. “Now Brienne, we believe the ruins are part of an old silent sisters cloister. You are our resident expert on old religious ruins, do you have an idea about the layout?”

“Well, Davos, most structures used by the silent sisters were positioned to form a seven-sided compound, with each building being used for a different purpose. Sleeping quarters, religious worship, preparing the dead, and so on.” Brienne tapped her trowel on the palm of her hand as she spoke, for emphasis. “Mr, um, ‘Darkstar’ is correct that bones of the sisters themselves should be buried nearby, but we were more interested in locating the remains of the structures, so we have a better idea about the layout.”

Sansa’s phone vibrated in her pocket with a message.

**Sandor [10.24am]: Come fucking save me from the Imp. He’s gone fucking rogue. Fucks sake.**

Sansa stifled a smile.

**Sansa [10.25am]: Sandor, you suggested him. And don’t call him that terrible name! I’ll be right over xxx**

Sansa left Davos, Brienne and Darkstar setting the scene for the dig and stepped carefully through the scrub towards Sandor’s assigned area. She’d never seen an urban site so overgrown. Bushes and vines covered almost the whole section, with looming trees growing between the still visible walls.

There were possibilities for little private niches, she realised, but quickly shelved the idea. The last thing she needed right now was to get distracted.

Sansa pushed through some particularly thick bushes and almost fell over one of the student helpers whom they’d drafted in to help with the grunt work on this dig. She smiled apologetically at the young woman and hurried over to her quarry when she spotted Sandor and Tyrion.

“Work it baby,” said Tyrion, panning the camera along the trench. He had the height advantage on Sandor, who had dug surprisingly far down and was currently crouching on the floor of the trench. “The camera loves you. Show me that sexy pot shard.”

“Fuck off, Lannister, you daft cunt,” said Sandor, without looking up from where he was brushing away soil. “And it’s the wall of a structure, not a pot.”

Tyrion groaned piteously. “Come on, Hound, give me something. ‘Taciturn’ and ‘grumpy’ are impossible for me to work with. We’re all under pressure on this dig. I have to share a room with Jaime, and he snores. I want to make this camerawork sing.”

Sandor grunted. “Never thought I’d miss Lommy and those other faithless cunts.”

Tyrion laughed, but kept filming. “Careful Hound, I might take umbrage and storm off to join Baelish’s ridiculous show.”

“I think they’re full up on annoying little shits,” replied Sandor, rolling his eyes.

Sansa waved at Tyrion to stop filming.

“Where’s everyone else?” Sansa asked. Her heart fluttered dramatically when Sandor looked up and smiled at her before resuming his excavating.

“We’re opening multiple test pits to work out the placement of the buildings, so we’re spread thin.”

Sansa nodded. “Tyrion, why don’t you find your brother? He and Arya were going to try to locate the body of Benedict II Justman using the geophysics, and you could get some good footage. Jaime got himself a metal detector from somewhere, so you should film him playing with that before Varys finds out and bans it from the site.”

“Fantastic idea, though I doubt the King was actually interred in this area,” Tyrion said, brightening considerably. “But Varys hates metal detectors, so that should be fun.”

Tyrion scurried away with the camera and Sansa sat on the edge of the trench and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This dig is a nightmare,” she said. “I hope Varys can track down some proper camera people for tomorrow.”

Sandor grunted an agreement, then looked back at her. “I’ve found some chalk deposits around this feature. Did you want to help excavate?”

Generally, Sansa would have considered that there was nothing like interesting chalk deposits to woo a woman and been impressed with Sandor’s romantic side, but regretfully she shook her head no. “I’ll get distracted and end up spending the morning here with you. I need to still keep an eye on Garlan and Tyrion, make sure they are getting enough footage to tide us over for today.”

Sandor cleared his throat and shot a cagey look at the various students dotted around the vicinity. “In that case, there’s a hard-to-reach spot nearby I noticed behind a couple of walls. We could… examine its archaeological potential.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flame red, and she glanced around too. Everyone in the assorted tiny trenches looked busy and productive. Five stolen minutes wouldn’t hurt their schedule.

It relieved Sansa that Sandor went first through the scrub because the overgrowth of plants was extreme. She couldn’t believe this was a backyard in an urban area. Even for a manor house, it was almost as big as the grounds of Winterfell.

Sandor pulled her into his arms as soon as they reached the nook between two crumbling walls. He was huge, warm, and smelled like coffee and fresh dirt. Sansa instantly wished they could spend the rest of the dig here alone. He grunted with surprise when Sansa immediately deepened their kiss and thrust her tongue into his mouth, but responded enthusiastically in kind.

“It feels like forever since we’ve last been alone,” she said against his mouth when they finally pulled back for breath. She stayed pressed against him, her arms over his shoulders.

“Aye,” he said, his hand that sat on the small of her back holding her against his hardness. “Our weekend together can’t come fucking soon enough.”

“Touch me,” Sansa breathed, before quickly tilting her head back and smiling at him. “Unless you have paint on your hands?”

He snorted in amusement, and his warm hand slipped under her t-shirt. He tipped his head forward to murmur in her ear. “Not this time, Little Bird.” He trailed his rough fingertips up her stomach and over her bra, gently pinching her nipples through the fabric. Little bursts of pleasure shot through Sansa’s body at Sandor’s touch. Their kisses grew frantic. She tugged up his new shirt to stroke his skin, and he groaned.

He pressed her back against the nearest wall. There was the faint grinding of stone, and Sansa gasped. “We should probably wear hard hats,” she said breathily.

“I confirmed the structural integrity of the walls, they are fine,” Sandor murmured, before Sansa pulled him back in for another kiss.

“Dr Clegane?”

The voice of one of the student diggers sounded from the direction they’d entered the scrub.

“Dr Clegane? One of the test pits is showing another possible wall.”

Sandor rasped several filthy curse words in her ear, and Sansa stifled a groan of frustration. She tugged him in for one more quick kiss.

“Back to work,” she whispered.

He swiped his thumb over her nipple again before tugging her shirt straight and tenderly kissing her forehead.

“Aye,” he grumbled, “back to fucking work.”

**Day 2:**

**From Stormlands Morning Herald, Online Edition:**

**Dear Daenerys,**

**I have a crush on a woman from work, but I’m not sure how to approach her. She seems like she might be interested, but also I think she might have a boyfriend? Should I express my interest in her by sending her a picture of my penis?**

**From Confused in Pyke.**

**Dear Confused,**

**Please do not send anyone pictures of your penis. Even the well-meaning gift of your unsolicited love rod is harassment. If there is anything I’ve learned in my life, it is that modern women prefer apex predators. Literally. A tasteful gift basket with some delightful goslings will show that you care, and give her the gift of the start of her own goose army.**

**Love Daenerys.**

Sansa squinted at her phone. If Sandor sent her a picture like that.... She doubted he would, but she would certainly prefer that to having her own personal army of geese.

“Are you still reading that trash advice column?” Arya’s voice came from over her shoulder.

Sansa hummed an affirmative, closing her phone screen and stashing the device in her bag. “Rickon sent me the link. I can’t look away. He said he’s going to write to her about Aunt Lysa.”

“Literally every answer she gives advises the person to get some geese.” Arya paused, then grinned. “Maybe you should write in and ask her what to do when your boyfriend gets caught groping you at work.”

Sansa started to walk back towards the principal part of the dig, and Arya fell into step beside her. “Shut up, Arya. I don’t want to get any geese.”

“Daenerys Targaryen is clueless, anyway.” Arya pulled a small scanner out of her satchel and idly scanned the ground as they walked. “Only famous for being famous.”

“She was certainly…” Sansa searched for something nice to say. “Unique.”

“I should write to her telling her you made me sleep on the couch this dig. Ask how I might use geese to resolve the situation.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Everyone has to share. You’re the smallest, Arya. Brienne wouldn’t fit at all, and I would struggle. My bunk bed isn’t any more comfortable than your couch.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s in my contract that I get to share a room with Gendry.”

Sansa waved away Arya’s objections. “Which would mean also sharing a room with Jaime, Tyrion and Sandor.”

Arya huffed. “Who planned this clash of events, anyway?”

“The accommodation was organised months ago,” said Sansa defensively. “It’s not my fault they double booked us.”

“At least this means you can’t sneak off with Sandor instead of working.”

Memories of kissing Sandor yesterday resurfaced, and Sansa willed her cheeks not to go red and betray her. “I wouldn’t anyway,” lied Sansa loftily. “I have plenty of self-restraint.”

“Tit t-shirt says no.” Arya looked sly. “Have you given any more thought to my proposed Digging Westeros crew shirt design?”

“No one is going to be wearing apparel with a handprint across the, um, chestal area. You need to stop emailing me your suggestions.”

“Oh, and here I was thinking we’d start a fashion trend.”

Sansa snorted indignantly, but luckily they’d reached the command tent where a gaggle of men with cameras stood beside Davos and Varys. She almost groaned in relief. Not one of them was holding a copy of _Professional Television Camera Operation For Dummies,_ which seemed to be a good sign. Apparently much of yesterday’s footage was a combination of oddly coloured (Garlan) and dramatic angles (Tyrion). When pressed, Tyrion had claimed that the liberal use of star wipes could overshadow any issues. He had been summarily dismissed as cameraman and was back in his usual role as historian, sulking inside the manor house with Olenna who had decided the grounds were too overgrown to work in.

“Ahh Sansa, there you are,” said Varys, motioning her over.

Arya muttered something about cornering Gendry in the mess tent, and scurried off.

A tall, handsome man with an eyepatch put his hand over his heart and swept into a courtly bow. “Dr Stark, your reputation precedes you. I am Beric Dondarrion of the Brotherhood Without Banners camera crew. This is my associate, Thoros of Myr and the rest of our crew, Harwin, Lem and Tom.”

Sansa greeted them all with some relief, happy to put the thought of star wipes out of her mind.

They all appeared competent too, as Sansa made a point of checking on all the areas being filmed. The Brotherhood members appeared to be able to use their cameras, were polite to the crew, didn’t stare at Sandor’s scars, and accepted some Choccy Yum Yums from Jaime. The only oddity was Thoros of Myr apparently claiming he regularly saw visions from the Red God in fireplaces, cigarette lighters, kitchen blow torches and pizza ovens. He seemed harmless enough, and religious freedom was mandated by both law and their terrifying head of Human Resources, Wylla Manderly, so Sansa put it out of her mind.

Sansa shifted from one foot to another as she watched Beric film the chat that Brienne and Davos were having about the history of the house. She was cautiously optimistic that things were on the improve for this dig.

“Now Brienne, I always get confused between Septas and Silent Sisters.” Davos leaned forward on the bench they’d positioned themselves on. Sandor was in a trench nearby with another section of wall, and Sansa tried not to watch him instead. “Aren’t they the same thing?” he continued.

Brienne was on her own, and Sansa wondered where Jaime was. Varys had confiscated his metal detector, but he was still wearing the brightly hued striped beanie that had briefly caused technological havoc yesterday.

“No Davos,” said Brienne, with her customary gravity. “Septas are the female godsworn of the Faith of the Seven, tasked with performing holy services. They were permitted out in the community, and many noble families employed septas as governesses for their children.”

Davos nodded. “And the silent sisters?”

“The Faith of the Seven tasked the silent sisters with preparing dead bodies with burial. They were often cloistered and never allowed to speak to the living, which is why we believe these buildings that form a cloister may well have been a silent sister compound.”

Sansa’s attention wandered. Her mother still nominally kept the Seven and Sansa had been interested in them as a child, but Northern culture was overwhelmingly Old God focused where matters of religion were concerned and the Seven tended to get forgotten.

Davos and Brienne finished their chat and Davos walked, followed with aplomb by Beric and his camera, over to Sandor.

“Well, Sandor,” said Davos, “there are a lot of trenches on this dig. What’s going on?”

Sandor pointed with his trowel towards where various Tyrells were in individual trenches.

Garlan looked longingly over at the camera and pouted, but kept digging.

“Our trench strategy with this dig is to move from the known area, here,” said Sandor, indicating his own trench, “until we hit a wall for a building, or a robber trench where locals possibly removed the wall to make use of the stone.”

Sandor had stood up, his sexy dove-grey coloured shirt pulling over his muscles in a highly compelling way. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on her job.

**Day 3:**

If anyone had told Sansa she would ever be on a dig with her top and bra pulled up under her chin whilst a colleague knelt in front of her, lavishing attention on her bare breasts, she’d have been scandalised. It was unprofessional, she would have said. Utterly out of the question.

Digs weren’t remotely sexy places, unless you were a horny undergraduate with a tent and too much free time.

Well.

She threaded her fingers through Sandor’s hair, pressing his face more firmly against her breast. He hummed approvingly, laving her nipple with his tongue. Sansa had never been this turned on in her life, including before and during actual sex.

She didn’t care that Sandor had pressed her against a dirty, moss-covered ancient wall. She did not care that the crew were possibly within earshot and she had to keep quiet. She didn’t even care that they had a limited amount of time before…

Sansa’s phone buzzed insistently.

“Shit,” groaned Sansa.

Sandor released her nipple with a wet ‘pop’ and looked up at her face. “That sounds fucking ominous,” he said. He rubbed his bearded cheek against her sensitive skin, and Sansa shivered in arousal.

“I set the alarm for fifteen minutes,” she said, her voice unsteady. “The experimental archaeology segment is very time sensitive. The food has to be hot.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Sandor muttered darkly.

Sansa peered down at him. “We’ll have an entire weekend together soon.”

Sandor stood up with a muffled groan, wincing as he straightened his back. “I’ll spend a lot longer than fucking fifteen minutes making you feel fucking good,” he said, dipping his head to kiss her before his words could quite register. 

“I… oh,” she replied shakily, before tugging her bra and clothing back into place.

They snuck out of the scrub separately, though the smirks from the various student diggers indicated that perhaps they weren’t fooling anyone. Sansa recalled with some mild regret that the management technically frowned upon workplace relationships, but at this point she couldn’t really bring herself to care.

The crew had set up some tables and chairs in the archaeology-free part of the owner’s lawn, with Hot Pie busy in a temporary catering tent beside them. The owner himself, who still wished to be addressed only as ‘Darkstar’ was hovering nearby watching the ongoing events.

Affable Davos had had unusually little luck getting Darkstar to talk about anything other than the sweet release of death and the vagaries of destiny, so if he was immune to Davos’s gruff charm, Sansa had no hope.

As she walked by him, Darkstar was muttering "I am of the night," under his breath, as he stared at a bucket of what appeared to be lampreys, of all things. Sansa quickened her step to put distance between them.

Sandor had arrived shortly before her and was standing, scowling, beside the biggest table. She paused near him, trying to put aside the feeling of his mouth on her body just minutes before.

She threw herself into helping to set up before Davos and the new cameraman Beric arrived, ignoring Sandor’s ominous rumblings about the food he’d be required to eat.

“Now here we have our main Digging Westeros caterer, Hot Pie,” said Davos when Beric started filming. Hot Pie, Darkstar and Sandor all sat at the table with him, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. “Can you tell me a little about the menu you have planned for us?”

Hot Pie gave a radiant smile. “Well, Davos, I’ve prepared some local dishes for us to sample today. We’ll be starting with some braised leeks, with a side of sweetgrass salad. Second course will be a traditional lamprey pie, followed by a robust third course of roast aurochs. Our dessert will be a berry tart.”

Sandor had grimaced at the words ‘lamprey pie’, but brightened considerably at the mention of aurochs and berry pie.

“And, it’s important to add,” said Davos, glancing at the camera, “you’ve ethically sourced all our ingredients.”

“Certainly,” replied Hot Pie, nodding so hard several of his chins jiggled. “Aurochs are a protected species, but there are some initiatives north of the Wall with local Free Folk enterprises to breed aurochs for consumption. The Lamprey was sourced from a farming collective at The Twins.”

Sansa wasn’t in the mood to be in front of the camera, so she snuck some braised leeks to try when everyone was distracted trying to identify the floral contents of the sweetgrass salad.

Oberyn appeared as she was surreptitiously shovelling food into her mouth. He held his sketchbook under one arm and a bowl of sweetgrass salad in his hand.

“I have hardly seen you this dig,” Oberyn murmured. “I hear you have been most busy with our delicious Dr Clegane.”

Sansa cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve been very busy, yes. On, um, this busy dig.”

Oberyn selected something yellow and ruffled from the salad and popped it into his mouth. “I also hear our unlamented former colleague Baelish is trying to get us shut down.”

Sansa looked sideways at him. “Further to poaching our camera crew?”

“He also has the ear of Tywin Lannister,” said Oberyn, pausing to spear what appeared to be several peas, “which may prove grave for our funding. Between the health and safety issues, unstable staffing roster and the various torrid affairs being conducted, we perchance have a problem.”

“Have you discussed this with Davos and Varys?” Sansa gazed sadly at her purloined leeks, suddenly not hungry. She put her bowl on the nearest chair.

“I have indeed. I just wished for everyone to be aware of potential issues as I have heard them.” Oberyn inclined his head, placed his salad with her leeks, then flipped open his sketchbook. “Now I wish to capture the beauty, not only of conversation with your lovely self, but of our friends over there partaking of lamprey pie.”

Sansa stifled a laugh and looked back over at Sandor and the others. The vegetable course had been removed and now a large golden pie sat in front of them.

“…the unsalted butter was crucial,” Hot Pie was saying passionately. “Not salted, because that is for people with limited palates. Unsalted butter, from the best cows of the Westerlands.”

Darkstar was looking quite enthralled with Hot Pie’s rant, and Sansa guessed he was also a butter aficionado.

“I see.” Davos looked politely bewildered, but he smiled gamely. Sansa had been to a restaurant several times with he and Stannis, so she assumed Davos was used to people having firm opinions about food. “And do I detect the aroma of bacon?”

“Yes, I used bacon, cream, onions, potatoes, beef stock and fresh herbs in the filling. And of course, the poached lamprey. I obtained a recipe from the kitchens of the old Red Keep in King’s Landing, found in the archives there.”

“Are the mouths in the pie?” interjected Darkstar. “The gaping lamprey mouths? I hear those are the most delightful part.”

Sandor gave Darkstar a searching sidelong look and shuffled slightly along the bench, closer to Davos.

Hot Pie’s smile wavered. “No, just the meat. I had to remove the heads, and the spines are poisonous, so they are always discarded too.”

“Well now,” said Davos loudly. “It looks delicious, Hot Pie. Let’s dig in.”

Sansa peered over Oberyn’s shoulder as he drew. He was in the midst of depicting Hot Pie as a jolly Septon, whilst Sandor wore what Sansa vaguely recognised as Novice robes, of all things. Darkstar was wearing the garb of a travelling knight with a sword and star emblem on his chest. Oberyn drew Davos as King Benedict II Justman, looking far more friendly than Sansa imagined the man would have done in real life.

“Tastes like chicken,” said Sandor, and Sansa looked back at the men at the table.

“It’s rather good,” said Davos, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. A lump of gelatinous white meat quivered on the end of his fork.

Beric made a disgusted face behind the camera, and Sansa privately agreed with him. She wasn’t keen to try out lamprey, mouths or not.

“Lamprey is supposed to be excellent for the libido,” murmured Oberyn, drawing a little lamprey head on the plate in front of his picture of Sandor.

“I’ll let Willas and Ellaria know then,” said Sansa quellingly, and everyone looked at Oberyn when he threw his head back and laughed.

The aurochs, when they served it, smelled exactly like roast beef, and Hot Pie explained to the men at the table that it did taste like beef, just… more so. Sandor perked up when large mugs of ale were bought to the table to accompany with roast.

“Do you have any alkaline water?” asked Darkstar plaintively.

Sansa’s phone buzzed, and she checked her messages.

**Arya [3.20pm]: I just fucking overheard Varys on the phone. That cunt Tywin Lannister is trying to get an injunction to stop production of the series after this dig. Baelish is involved apparently.**

Sansa gasped and showed Oberyn her phone screen.

He scowled and shook his head. “Sooner than I considered.”

**Sansa [3.21]: Everyone needs to keep going as usual for today. We’ll work out what needs to happen after this dig.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Daenerys,  
> My Aunt ‘Rysa’ has signed up to one of those multi-level marketing schemes. She’s constantly asking our family to join up, even though we mostly just ignore her. Except my brother ‘Snobb’, who simply replies with monkey gifs. If faecal-hurling monkeys won’t deter her, what will?  
> Should we keep ignoring her, or should I enact my idea to have her home declared as sovereign territory, then institute a telecommunications blackout for it?  
> From ‘Zickon’ in ‘Minterfell’
> 
> Dear Zickon,  
> I disapprove of trying to make money from those whom we care for, so I understand your frustration. How do you feel about large groups of birds? If you unleash a delightful invasion force of geese upon her property, she’ll be too busy and happy to bother people with her schemes.  
> Love Daenerys.


	13. Interlude: Lannisport part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note I've upped the fic rating to E and updated the tags accordingly. 
> 
> These two have waited more than long enough for this, so on with the show!

Sandor discussed work with Sansa on their early morning flight to Lannisport, an entirely bloody necessary precaution because he didn’t fancy having to function with a massive fucking hard on. They had booked a commercial flight too, so he really had to keep it together.

“Why would anyone want to shut us down?” said Sansa at one point, poking at her cup of airplane nuts with a finger, before selecting a cashew.

She wore a knee-length dress that rode up when she sat down, and he had to avoid staring at her creamy thigh because he needed to think about anything other than how badly he wanted to fuck her. Whenever he caught himself staring at Sansa, he tried to think about the colour of the dress instead of imagining what lay beneath it. Loras probably would have called it emerald or some shit, but it looked green to him. He was never, ever, going to admit he had read the colour charts Loras had emailed to him. Fuck's sake, chartreuse was greenish yellow and scarlet was red. No need to complicate things.

“People are cunts,” he said, fixing his gaze on the back of the seat in front of them. “The lawyers will sort that bullshit out.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I know Stannis is very well regarded as a lawyer.”

Sandor reached over and stole a peanut from her because he had already finished his. The food was the only upside to being on a commercial flight. “Stannis seemed competent to me. He sorted my accident shit out in a couple of days.”

“Whatever happened to people are c-words?” Sansa grinned at him and offered him her cup of nuts. “It sounds like you actually liked Stannis when you met.”

He selected a cashew and a pistachio, then waved them away. “He’d have to be alright if Davos married him.”

“I didn’t realise you were so fond of Davos either.” Sansa tilted her head to the side as she spoke.

Sandor shrugged. “You’d have to be a right cunt not to like Davos.”

Sansa pursed her lips, considering his statement, and he absolutely did not picture what his cock would like disappearing between them. “True.”

His cock behaved itself on the flight and through the busy domestic terminal in Lannisport, but all bets were off once they boarded the taxi home and Sansa took his hand. She caressed the back of his hand with her thumb, and he’d never been so tempted to fuck anyone in a public vehicle.

Thank all the fucking gods it was a reasonably brief journey to his place.

He was so busy kissing Sansa as they stumbled into the lift and up to the penthouse of his apartment building that he almost forgot to breathe.

They paused long enough for him to unlock his door, but she pressed him against the door for more kissing once they were inside and he’d dropped their bags on the floor.

Sansa broke the kiss after several minutes and he watched as she glanced around. The door had led straight into his living area, a decent sized open plan space with a couple of sofas, his TV, and an enormous bookcase where he kept his non work-related books. He had a kitchen off to the side, also big because he liked to cook and needed the space. His bedroom and office were in rooms on the far side of the area.

He was about to suggest moving to the bedroom when Sansa spoke.

“Sandor, I need you,” she said, her voice husky. “I need you now.”

She’d previously expressed some nerves about sex, after her previous bad experiences, but he didn’t detect any hint of that anymore.

She took a step away from him before he had a chance to respond and bent herself over the back of his sofa, presenting him with a delightful view of her lush arse. The dress rode up again, perilously close to revealing all of her legs to him.

He stood blinking at her like a fucking idiot, prompting her to moan, “Now Sandor, please.”

If she were so desperate for him that she couldn’t make the few steps to his bedroom, who was he to question it?

He stepped behind Sansa and ran his hands up her smooth thighs, rucking up her dress as he did so. Sliding the material up to her waist, the profoundly compelling sight of her not wearing any underwear greeted him.

Seven Hells.

That was the best surprise he’d ever had.

She moved her legs further apart and arched her hips towards him, presenting him with the even better view of her pretty pink cunt, glistening with her arousal.

His cock was harder than he ever remembered it being, desperate to be inside her. He assumed from her position that she wanted him to fuck her right there, but he couldn’t. Not before he got a taste of her beautiful wet cunt.

He dropped to his knees behind her, barely noticing the twinge in his back from where the bloody building in Queenscrown had tried to take him out.

He could smell how turned on she was, warm and musky, and his mouth watered in response.

The filthy moan Sansa gave when he put his mouth on her cunt was undoubtedly the sound that would launch a thousand wet dreams.

She was fucking dripping as he explored her with his tongue. He tried to focus on her reactions, working out what she liked from the volume of her breathy moans.

Fucked if he ever wanted to take his face out from between her thighs, but he could tell she was close to her climax with hardly any stimulation from him. He sympathised entirely. He would have to put in a superhuman effort not to blow his load the moment he got inside her.

He flicked his tongue a few more times over her swollen clit, the movement she seemed to like the most. She arched her back again and cried out as she came all over his face.

Her knees buckled, and he caught her as she sagged backwards. He hauled her onto his lap on the floor and she hummed and buried her face in his neck. He hoped she didn’t take too long to recover her senses because if anyone could expire from an unsatisfied erection, then Sandor was doomed.

“Sandor,” Sansa murmured after few moments, and began kissing his neck.

“You able to make it to the bedroom this time?” he said into her hair and she huffed a laugh.

“That might be more comfortable,” she conceded. “I don’t know if I can keep standing.”

He tilted her face up for a kiss, wanting her to taste her own sweetness on his lips. She responded with enthusiasm, humming with pleasure.

“I want to make you come again,” he said when they broke the kiss. “That was sexy as fuck.”

She blushed deeply, but stood up on wobbly legs. He followed her, then pulled her back into another kiss.

“I need you inside me,” she said, going even redder but gazing into his eyes. Her eyes shone the endless cerulean of the Northern sky.

Cerulean.

Fucks sake he should never have read those colour charts. Her eyes were simply blue.

Sansa had to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. What the fuck was she doing with an ugly cunt like him?

She slipped her hand into his and he realised he had been staring back at her again like a dumb fuck.

“Aye,” he blurted, squeezing her hand. “I’m fucking desperate to fuck you.”

Not the most romantic thing he might have said, but she smiled, and her eyes sparkled. He wasn’t much of one for grand romance, but he thought Sansa was fucking magnificent and he couldn’t wait to make her come again.

“Is your bedroom this way?” she said, tugging him towards the other side of the living room.

“Aye,” he replied, following behind her like an obedient dog.

She hummed in appreciation when she saw his big bed and kissed him again before turning around and pulling her hair out of the way. “Would you help me undress?”

“Fuck yes.” His voice sounded more wrecked than usual, probably from what felt like the entire blood flow of his body going south to his cock. Luckily Sansa’s dress had a simple zip at the back and not some fucking complex unlocking mechanism that some clothing seemed to possess.

Sandor unzipped her and pushed the green dress down to pool at her feet, revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra either and now stood naked in his bedroom. He had kissed her delectable tits before, but fuck he wanted to worship all of her. He’d never seen a back and arse so beautiful. Her skin glowed pale and luscious, and her curves were incredibly sexy.

She didn’t give him much time to stare at her before she turned around and pulled his shirt up and off with his help. Her eyes went wide as he threw the shirt behind him and she ran a hand up his torso, combing her fingers through his chest hair.

She bit her lip and began fumbling with his belt buckle. He stroked a back of his knuckles over a tit, watching as the nipple pebbled and she gasped. Sansa pulled his jeans and underwear down with some haste, letting his hard, leaking cock spring free.

“Oh yes please,” Sansa said, eyeing his cock covetously. “Gods Sandor, I really need you.”

She pressed her warm naked body against his and he cupped her face as they kissed again. Her skin was soft, and he regretted that his hands were so calloused as he touched her lovely ripe body. He walked her backwards towards his bed, then picked her up and deposited her in the middle of it.

He must have grunted with the effort that required because she smiled up at him, apparently in aroused amusement, then held open her arms.

Crawling between her legs and positioning himself over her was every bit as good as he had imagined. He’d pictured many and varied situations involving Sansa being naked. Naked and bent over the rim of a trench. Naked and discussing Northern pot firing techniques. Naked and begging for his cock. Naked and demanding that he lick her cunt. These fantasies generally surfaced whilst he frantically wanked like a horny teenager, but the reality was fucking amazing.

Sandor kissed her again because he would never get enough of that. He loved how she reached up and tangled her hands in his hair as they kissed.

Resting his weight on one arm, Sandor reached down to line himself up with her sweet cunt. He teased her clit with his cock head, feeling a throb of satisfaction as she made a throaty noise of pleasure.

“Please Sandor,” she said in a low voice, “inside me.”

At that he pushed himself into her wet cunt and fuck it was the most wondrous sensation. They’d previously discussed contraception like reasonable fucking adults, and he was profoundly glad she took the pill. They were both clean, and she was happy for him not to wear a condom and he was relieved because she felt so fucking good around his cock.

“Fuck,” he whispered when he was in her to the hilt, which was a wholly inadequate sentiment, but about all he could manage right then.

Sansa had shut her eyes, but she opened them again as she reached up with a trembling hand and stroked his face. On the fucked-up side.

“Could you wait a minute? You are so… big,” she said, her voice wobbling a touch. “I’m so full.”

He frowned at that, thinking to pull out again. “You okay? Does it hurt? We can stop any time.”

She tightened her thighs around him, keeping him in place. “It feels amazing. I just need a moment to get used to you.”

He felt like a dumb cunt because he knew it had been years since she’d fucked anyone, and he wasn’t exactly small. He should have gone more slowly, even though she hadn’t appeared nervous.

Sansa studied his face, eyes moving as she evidently examined every ugly detail. He couldn’t quite understand her impulse to look at his ruined face while his cock was rammed up all the way inside her, but her own face appeared flushed and happy. She traced her fingertips over his eyebrow, round over his cheekbones, nose, and lips. She gazed at him like he was a fucking king and looking into her eyes he almost believed it.

After what seemed like forever but must only have been a minute or so, she gave a hum of pleasure and her internal muscles squeezed around him. “I’m okay now. But kiss me first?”

She tugged his head down again as she spoke, and he was happy to oblige, though humping his back so that their faces lined up properly was a little uncomfortable.

Sandor started to fuck her slowly after they broke the kiss, and she arched her back and moaned like she had when he tasted her cunt. He would never, ever, tire of hearing her moan like that.

He wanted to see what his cock looked like disappearing into her, so he sat back on his heels, pulling her hips up so he could stay inside. Sandor pushed her legs right against her body and he went even deeper into her cunt.

She made even more noises of pleasure with the change of angle, and he realised he might have made a mistake if he wanted to avoid coming as quickly as a green boy. The sight when he looked down was fucking overwhelming, with her parted cunt lips flushed deeply pink with her arousal and the auburn curls surrounding it slicked wet and dark.

Watching his cock fuck her almost undid him and he had to shut his eyes tight and think about something else.

Something not at all sexy.

Ancient Rhoynish black-figure pottery design and their weird obsession with snakes.

If ancient cist burials should be pronounced ‘kist’ or ‘sist’.

The correct procedure for trench marking and if he should order a ten-inch trowel just to fuck with the Tyrells.

“Oh my gods Sandor I’m going to come again,” Sansa gasped, tightening hard around him and he was a fucking goner.

He abandoned all thoughts of self-restraint, gripped her hips hard and started pounding into her. She arched her back and fucking shrieked as she orgasmed again, and he had no time to feel smug before he slammed into her and blew his load inside her tight cunt.

He ought to go and fetch her a cloth to clean up since he had made the mess, but for the life of himself Sandor couldn’t do anything other than manoeuvre to avoid crushing her as he flopped beside her on the bed.

Sandor pulled an equally boneless Sansa into his arms and she gave a contented hum and pressed herself against him, laying her head on his chest.

He closed his eyes for a moment, intending to open them and help her clean up after a couple of minutes. That was his last thought before he drifted off into a comfortable sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loras did, in fact, find out that Sandor had read the emailed colour charts.  
> It happened one day, some months in the future, when they were alone in a trench, and Sandor accidentally referred to a lovely blue patterned early Andal floor tile as “Cornflower in hue, with taupe detailing.” Sandor didn’t even realise he’d done so, but carried on recording the find.  
> Loras was very proud of him, but never revealed Sandor’s secret.


	14. Interlude: Lannisport part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts where the previous one left off. I'd love to hear what you think! 😊

It turned out that Dr Sandor Clegane was a man who slept both deeply and profoundly after sex.

Sansa dozed in his embrace after they both climaxed, content to relax and calm down after such an intense experience. Sandor was out cold, occasionally snoring and tightening his arm around her whenever she moved.

She could not quite believe how forward she’d been. Not wearing anything under the emerald-coloured dress she had bought to wear for this weekend. Demanding he service her. Saying scandalous things that she winced to recall, and she desperately hoped he wouldn’t think differently about her after that. Embarrassment tingled through her.

Their lovemaking had been amazing though, a profound emotional and physical experience. Intimate and deeply affecting. Her body still buzzed with the aftermath of pleasure.

She eventually raised her head to look at Sandor. He was utterly relaxed, his face as peaceful as she’d ever seen him. He snorted in his sleep and she grinned at him, affection swelling in her chest.

Sandor tried to hold on to her as she wiggled out from his sleeping embrace, but she was uncomfortably wet between her legs and wanted to clean herself up. She picked up the shirt Sandor had been wearing before they got naked. It smelled like him and she smiled again as she pulled it over her head. Wearing it made her feel safe.

She left the soundly slumbering Sandor and went in search of a bathroom.

Their bags still lay discarded just inside the front door. Sandor’s sofa was nearby, and embarrassment flittered through Sansa again as she recalled bending herself over the back of it, shamelessly exposing herself to him. Her self-consciousness faded remembering his reaction.

Gods.

She wanted him again, warmth pooling between her legs. The muffled sound of snoring sounded from the bedroom and Sansa huffed a laugh. 

Sandor’s apartment was tastefully, if sparsely, furnished. Scrupulously tidy, his personalised décor consisted mostly of books. There was a framed photograph on the wall of a dig on what looked like the Quiet Isle, and another of the inside of a library.

She found Sandor’s bathroom easily, stripping then briefly ducking into the shower for a quick wash. Using his shower gel felt pleasingly intimate. She redressed in Sandor’s shirt, loving how big and comfortable it was.

She poked her head through the bedroom door. Sandor had rolled over, still snoring, revealing his powerful back to her. His surgery scars looked stark against his skin but appeared to have healed well. He was magnificent without clothes. Sansa wanted to lick every inch of skin she saw. She’d been too overwhelmed and overstimulated to pay attention to his reactions during their earlier lovemaking, but she couldn’t wait to find out what kind of noises she might elicit from him.

Sansa took a shaking breath, tempted to wake Sandor up from his peaceful sleep just to slake her lust. She could not bring herself to do that, though. Everyone had been so stressed with all their work issues. Frankly, she envied Sandor’s ability to get a proper rest.

Sansa’s stomach growled, reminding her of other physical needs. They had skipped lunch, both too distracted with what would happen once they reached Sandor’s apartment to pick up any supplies on the way. Leaving Sandor sleeping, she headed to the kitchen to fossick for food. His cupboards and freezer were well stocked with staples, but of course he didn’t have any fresh food except a wizened apple in the fridge. She tapped her foot on the floor, then went in search of her phone to order takeout for delivery.

Lannisport had a wide variety of cuisines available, and she was spoiled for choice. She loved the North with all her heart, but with the notable exception of White Harbour, it was not cosmopolitan and certainly wasn’t known for its interesting food. Unless you were very fond of stew and pork pies. Lannisport, on the other hand, seemed to have everything she could think of.

She found a Dornish restaurant online and ordered slow roasted lamb, stuffed green peppers with a side of flatbreads, chickpea paste and black olives. She smiled when she realised they also sold lemon cakes for dessert and ordered two.

Sansa paused, glanced toward Sandor’s bedroom, then changed her order to four lemon cakes.

The website indicated she would have a forty-five-minute wait, so Sansa headed back to the kitchen to make a drink. She had spotted some herbal tea earlier, which didn’t seem like a Sandor type of beverage, but she wasn’t complaining.

She made a cup of camomile tea, grabbed a book from the bookcase and curled up on the seat of the sofa she had bent herself over earlier that afternoon. Sansa eyed the back of it, remembering the texture of the fabric under her fingers as she clutched it to stay upright. Gods, the hot, slick feel of his mouth on her. He’d even seemed to enjoy pleasuring her that way, given his enthusiasm.

Arousal made itself known again, and she grumbled to herself. Maybe she would have to wake Sandor up. Though perhaps she should relax and wait for the food to arrive instead of throwing herself at Sandor like a sex crazed maniac.

Sansa sipped the hot tea and focused on the book she had picked at random. Sandor must keep his archaeology books in his office because the living room selection appeared to be a mixture of novels and general non-fiction.

She’d selected a book about the Westerlands Warriors football team, and she screwed up her nose. Sports was not her thing. The bookcase seemed like too much effort to reach from her comfy spot, and she flipped through a few pages instead.

She looked up at the sound of footsteps. A naked Sandor stood in the doorway of his bedroom and Sansa tossed the book on the table, immediately forgotten. He yawned and stretched, which did extremely compelling things to his muscles.

“Little Bird,” he said sleepily. “You left my bed.”

“You went straight to sleep,” replied Sansa, more tartly than she intended. “I did not.”

Sandor hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Someone demanded I fuck them,” he said lightly. “I was tired after.”

Sansa laughed, despite the frisson of self-consciousness caused by his blunt words. “I ordered some lunch for delivery.”

He yawned again and walked over to her. Sansa tried very, very hard not to ogle his flagrant nudity.

Sandor flopped down beside her, causing it to shift slightly. Sansa leaned against him, and he slung his arm around her. She put her hand flat on his broad chest, smiling as he took a deep breath.

She couldn’t help but notice his manhood started to thicken and grow when she touched him.

Sandor grunted and looked down. “You behave,” he said to it.

Sansa cleared her throat and trailed a finger up Sandor’s hairy thigh. “We’ve got time before the food arrives if you want to…”

He levelled his gaze at her and raised his eyebrow. “Fuck?”

“Make love again,” she said, smiling at him, lightly scratching her nails down his thigh.

Sandor glanced at his now decidedly enthusiastic erection. “I’m not as young as I was, but apparently for you my cock is always ready.”

Summoning some of her earlier boldness, Sansa swung a leg over his and straddled his thighs. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said before she leaned forward to kiss him.

He cupped her face in his huge hands, running his thumbs over her cheekbones.

Mindful of the time that remained before their food arrived, Sansa reached down and grasped Sandor’s erection as they kissed.

Without breaking the kiss, she raised herself, lined him up and sank down until he was fully inside her.

Sandor dropped his head against the back of the sofa, groaning. “I’ll never fucking get tired of this. Fuck you feel good.” He moved his hands down to her hips, holding her still for a moment.

Sansa let out a long shuddering breath. Taking all of him was easier than last time, which had stretched her to the border of pain.

She rocked herself against him, trying to find a pleasing rhythm, his grip heightening her pleasure.

Time seemed to stand still as she chased her climax. The room filled with the wet sounds of their coupling, twined with her gasps, his low groans.

“What do you need?” he rasped eventually.

“Oh gods Sandor,” she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut so she could better focus on the tight hot slide of him inside her body.

He tightened his grip on her. “Tell me what you need. Tell me, Little Bird.”

“I want to come,” she blurted. “Sandor. I need to come.”

He hummed and slipped his hand between their bodies. “Show me how.”

He circled her clit a few times and Sansa pressed her hand over the top of his, guiding his touches to what she liked best.

He was a quick study, keeping his movements smooth as she ground herself against him.

Her orgasm made her shake with its intensity. She was dimly aware of Sandor murmuring to her encouragingly, but her toes were curling, and it was difficult to focus on anything other than her own ecstasy.

Sandor gripped her hips and thrust up into her, hard and deep, and she cried out as the hot sensation of pleasure inside her spiked again. Sandor groaned through his own climax.

She slumped against him and he wrapped his arms around her. His erection softened and slipped out of her, but his embrace of her didn’t waver. He stroked a rough hand up and down her back, under the shirt she still wore.

Sansa buried her face against his neck. The unscarred side, so his beard hair tickled her nose. “Are you going to sleep?” she said, not entirely in jest.

His hand reached down and squeezed her bare bottom. “Aye, maybe I should,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

“You’ll miss the food then.” She raised her head a touch to whisper into his ear. “I ordered more lemon cakes than I should eat alone.”

Sandor grunted a laugh in response. “Well, we can’t have that.” He slung an arm tightly around her waist and shimmied forward to pick her mug of herbal tea up from the table. He sniffed it, then drank the half cup she had left.

“It’s camomile. And it’ll be cold.”

Sandor placed the mug back on the coaster. “I know, it’s my tea.” His hands drifted down to her bottom again, and he caressed her. “Fuck, I like your arse.”

Sansa shifted her head so she could see Sandor’s face properly. She smoothed his ruffled hair back. “I never thought of you as a herbal tea kind of man.”

Sandor shrugged. “It helps me sleep.”

“I don’t think you need any more help with that,” Sansa said archly.

“You know you can feel free to wake me up if you ever want to fuck.”

The buzzer sounded from beside the door.

“I’ll answer,” said Sansa. “I’m less naked.”

To the delivery person’s credit, they only blinked a few times when Sansa answered the door wearing only Sandor’s enormous shirt. It did cover her down to mid thigh.

“Dornish,” said Sandor with some interest when Sansa had collected the food and laid it out on the table. He’d donned his underpants and Sansa had to admit she’d greatly enjoyed seeing him naked. He blinked at the amount of food. “Seven Hells, there’s only two of us.”

“I’ve seen how much you eat.”

Sandor had bought her a towel to sit on and folded it across the seat of the dining chair next to his. She was self-conscious about the tacit reference to the aftermath of their love making, but she sat on it gratefully anyway.

“Aye, that’s true.” Sandor popped an olive in his mouth and chewed meditatively.

Sansa wrapped a chunk of lamb in some flatbread and dipped it in the chickpea paste. “Plus, we can eat the leftovers so we can stay here longer without having to go out.”

Sandor smiled at her, a proper smile, and Sansa felt warm inside. “I can think of worse ways to spend a weekend than fucking you,” he said.

Despite the intimacy they’d been sharing, Sansa’s cheeks flushed hot. “Likewise,” she said, reaching over to squeeze Sandor’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor’s couch was never quite the same again after that weekend.   
> Even after a deep clean. 
> 
> (That never stopped him using it for post-sex naps though.)


End file.
